


A Strange Sort of Fate

by mylovelylions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Family Drama (Harry Potter), Canon, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff Pride, Magic, Marauders, Obscurus (Harry Potter), Romance, Sex, Slow Burn, To Read, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 21:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 58,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylovelylions/pseuds/mylovelylions
Summary: Clara Deschamp never wanted to go to Hogwarts. She was perfectly happy at Beauxbaton where nothing ever happened and everyone acted a certain way and her unfortunate family history was shoved under the rug. But when her father receives a position in England, she's forced to leave the safety of her old school and face her family's relation to Lord Voldemort and her increasingly unstable magic.
Comments: 44
Kudos: 57





	1. An Unfortunate Beginning

There was not much to be said in the early morning of August 30th between the Deschamp family. Maybe a much more accurate way of putting it would be that there was not much that could be talked about between the Deschamps while they were sitting at the worn tables of the Leaky Cauldron. And that - although he would never say - was exactly why Mr. Deschamp had decided to place his two daughters and his lovely wife in the inn at all.

"This place is a pigsty," Annabelle, the youngest Deschamp murmured in french with a morbid sort of praise as her eyes swept over the high ceiled tavern. Dusty lamps hung from the beams, suspended above the heavily marred long tables below. Eying the blackened marks that colored the fireplace, Annabelle's lips curled down in disdain.

There was much that the Deschamps already disliked about England even though they had only stayed a week in it's cramped cobblestone streets. Even Mrs. Deschamp was straining to keep her usual, placid smile in place as a red-headed boy in billowing robes came down the stairs at a run, the wood beneath his feet giving a weary groan. They looked as if they would fall apart with the next downpour.

"That is…" Mr. Deschamps startling amber eyes flicked quickly to the door as a pair of witches roared inside, cackling about some wizard or another that they had bewitched to think himself a toad. Mrs. Deschamp's smile faltered even more and Annabelle gave a smirk. Quickly, Mr. Deschamp regained himself. "That is very unkind of you. England - England is very… very…"

"Quaint?" Mrs. Deschamp tried to help, squeezing her husband's much beefier hand in a sign of outward support.

The oldest and youngest Deschamp daughter shared a significant look of disbelief.

"I refuse to go, papa," Clara, the oldest of the Deschamp daughters said, her voice low and clear as she held her parent's gaze steadily.

A tick in Mr. Deschamps jaw went off. "We will not talk about it here, Clara." There was a slight pause as he sipped at a cup of tea, Annabelle eying the chipped rim with distaste. He didn't glance up as he set it down in its saucer carefully. "But you will go."

"I will not go to that horrid school-" Clara whispered viciously, leaning forward as her amber eyes lit to a fearsome gold, her slender fingers digging into the wood table.

"Ssshhhh," her father hissed reproachfully, glancing around as some of the patrons turned to glance curiously at where they were seated. He gave them a fake smile, nervously patting Mrs. Deschamps hand as she did the same, flashing a startling display of pearly teeth. His eyes cut back to his eldest daughter as Annabelle, tipped her head in the direction of the nearest, staring witch, waving delicately until he spluttered, turning away. "We will not draw attention to ourselves in this manner."

The sad truth of the matter was that they were drawing attention - just not in the way that Mr. Deschamp was so worried about.

Coming from a long line of gardeners, Mr. Deschamp was made of stockier constitution than his wife. His arms flexed menacingly beneath his robes and his handlebar mustache was much to glossy to not draw attention to the squareness of his jaw and the slight crook in his nose that came from being broken various times. Far from sitting behind a desk, the Frenchman looked like he should be in the care of some sort of dangerous business like wrestling hippogriffs or hunting down dark wizards.

It was an almost comical contrast to the willowy Mrs. Deschamp, her features delicate and her skin alabaster, contrasting sharply with her husband's sun-tanned hue. Wild, blonde, almost white curls framed an angular face with wide, forest green eyes and full lips. The tips of her ears peeked from beneath the wild mass as she reached a slender hand up to push it back, their tips oddly pointed.

Each daughter took after different aspects of their parents. While both were willowy, Annabelle bordered on looking too frail and breakable while Clara's body seemed to hold a quiet strength. The eldest daughter had inherited her father's striking amber eyes and bronzed skin while her sister took more towards their mother. The only thing that Clara seemed to have taken from Mrs. Deschamp was the wild, tangle of whitish curls and her delicately pointed ears which infuriated the girl to no end. Forget putting it up in a bun or anything other than perhaps a braid - it would all escape within the hour anyway.

But there were other things that separated the sisters. Clara's eyes wandered to the dark circles weighing down her sister's emerald eyes, watching in silence as her shoulders shook in a barely contained fit of coughing.

"Don't mind me," Annabelle wheezed out, turning away to clutch at the tabletop as she hacked. "Just getting rid of a lung."

" _Ici_ ," Clara whispered, pushing a glass of water to the waiting hands of her sister. Squaring her shoulders, she turned back to her parents who both looked pensive and resigned. "You cannot expect me to go to this - this place with just a word of warning a few days before the beginning of term!"

"Everything has already been arranged," Mr. Deschamp said immediately as if he were expecting this response, dragging his eyes away from his youngest daughter who had slumped tiredly back into her seat. "Beauxbaton has been notified-"

"What?" Clara hissed.

"We agreed that we wouldn't tell her that," her mother whispered venomously, pinching her husband's arm in reprimand as he gave her an apologetic glance.

"So you're telling me that all of this was planned - what? Weeks in advance?" With every word, Clara's rage grew, her wand suddenly weighing very heavily in her robe pockets.

"See? I told you this would happen if we mentioned that bit," Mrs. Deschamp whispered grumpily, shooting a final glare at her husband as he sighed.

"Well, obviously there was some advanced notice about my transfer to the Ministry of Magic," he grumbled, highly exhausted from the added effort of placating another female.

"How much advanced notice?" Clara questioned and Annabelle snickered under her breath, watching from beneath her lashes at the ongoing storm.

Mr. Deschamp's mustache twitched as he considered his next words carefully. "A few months."

"Months?!" Clara roared, drawing the attention of nearly the whole tavern. Nervously, Mr. Deschamp glanced around, giving what he hoped to be a dismissive wave of his big hand.

" _Nous ignorer,_ " he laughed before whirling back to his daughter. "Calm yourself before you make a spectacle of us all."

"Oh yes," Annabelle whispered sardonically, catching the gaze of a boy two tables down with a mess of thick, black hair and smudged, circular glasses as he stared curiously up from his porridge. "We wouldn't want to draw attention to ourselves."

The youngest Deschamp was all too aware of what they must looked like - the four of them so obviously French in both their manner and language. Their robes were trimmed in a silver, sparkling like stars from the depths of their midnight blue robes. Far from looking like traveling wizards and witches, they looked like the rich merchants that they were.

Pure bloods to the last drop running through their veins, the Deschamps knew exactly what it meant to have worked from the bottom up. Before the first headmistress was even a twinkle within a witch's mind, the Deschamps had already cared for the ground that Beauxbaton was built from. They planted the first fields of lavender. They nursed the first alder tree from the depths of winter all the way through the changing of the seasons - year after year until they had finally risen from mere gardeners to merchants and then finally into the Ministry of Magic.

That was why it was so hard for Clara to wrap her head around the fact that they were throwing it all away to move to - to some - Clara snarled, shooting her parents a stare of utter loathing.

All she knew was Beauxbaton. She had grown in the shades of the alder, stared up at the clear, warm sky through their leaves. When she closed her eyes, she could perfectly see the smooth walls of the chateau, the sky pinkening behind it as another day ended and she walked with her friends to her home. She loved Beauxbaton like she loved her small, little home with the garden in the back and the front porch with it's herbs and heavily cushioned chairs in the front..

Now, with the suddenness of a striking storm, her father had sprung their move to England and her subsequent transfer into Hogwarts - a school that Beauxbaton had held a warm rivalry with for years now.

"How could you -" Clara stopped abruptly, her eyes falling to the table and her brows furrowing as she tried to properly phrase her anger. Finally, taking a deep breath, she met her father's quickly softening gaze. "You've ripped away everything from us so casually - I don't understand -"

Blinking rapidly, she turned her gaze back to the table once more as she felt an uncomfortable burning in her throat.

"Clara, _mon lapin_ ," my father whispered, hesitantly his fingers reached out, curling around his eldest daughters much smaller ones. Quietly, he continued. "There are many hard times to come. Horrible, wicked things. I want you to be safe. I want you both to be safe."

"But - Hogwarts?" Clara whispered, her voice colored with obvious strain at the thought.

"Just last year a chamber was opened and five students were killed-" Annabelle piped up, sounding vaguely like an old hen clucking away at chicks.

"Killed?" My father reeled back, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face as he turned to stare at Mrs. Deschamp who merely sighed. "What utter rubbish. Really I don't know how they come up with this - this tripe. Five children? Do they think the Ministry is full of blind, old mad men? Why we would have shut the school down-"

"So they weren't killed?" Annabelle rubbed at her nose.

"Paralyzed," Mr. Deschamp dismissed. "Merely put in a sort of coma for a spell. Missed all their classes - the lucky tykes. Why, I would have given my left arm to have missed Arithmancy for an entire ye-"

"Dear," Mrs. Deschamp reprimanded softly, stopping her husband mid-rant with a reproachful glance.

Looking slightly abashed, Mr. Deschamp cleared his throat, his eyes focusing on his eldest daughter once more.

"I think the point would be that they were put into those circumstances in the first place," Clara said calmly, meeting her father's gaze with a level stare.

"You," he said, smoothing his features out and pressing a comforting hand to Clara's. "You are going to be instructed under the greatest wizard that ever lived-"

"Getting rather ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" Clara heard Annabelle mutter under her breath. Mr. Deschamp ignored her while his wife gave her youngest a stern stare.

"There is no school in the world that is safer-"

"Not to mention one that will give you a better education, _mon lapin_ ," her mother added hurriedly.

Except for Beauxbaton, a small voice in Clara's mind whispered dejectedly but she didn't have the heart to say as much under the hopeful smiles of her parents.

"There we are," Mr. Deschamp chortled, taking his daughters silence as agreement. He glanced around, grinning broadly. "And while you are under the care of the wisest-"

"Kindest," Mrs. Deschamp threw in with delight.

Her husband continued on with gusto. "Witches and wizards to ever walk this planet, Annabelle shall be with us, receiving the best treatment that can be bought."

"Yippee," Annabelle grumbled, sulkily sliding further into her seat. The youngest Deschamp wasn't merely dejected about her future under her parents' attentive focus - she was crushed. Since she was old enough to grasp her wand, all she had dreamed of was going to school. Going to school like any other regular witch would. The usual pain in Annabelle's chest constricted until she felt unwanted tears well up which she quickly hid by taken a large gulp of tea.

"What a happy day," Mr. Deschamp beamed and Clara's eyes widened in obvious astonishment at the mere mention.

"What a busy day," Mrs. Deschamp corrected, pulling a rumpled piece of paper from her robes and smoothing it out on the table. Her eyes narrowed as she read over it. "So much to buy - They want her to have an owl, dear. Beauxbaton didn't use owls. How very… quaint. And the robes are rather - well, we must make do."

Their words became a distant drone of rising and falling voices as Clara's eyes fixed on her untouched breakfast - a funny mix of eggs, baked beans and hash browns with a half burnt piece of toast.

"Scabbers!" a red-headed boy with a startling array of freckles dotting his face screamed, racing around tables in search of something.

Clara watched dully, her mind glumly set on the fact that she would be going to this school - this Hogwarts whether she kicked and screamed or went without a fight.

"Bloody hell!" someone bellowed as upstairs there was a crash, sending brick dust raining down on their table.

"Bloody hell indeed," Annabelle grumbled in french, crossing her arms and glaring heavenward.


	2. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters

_ Chapter Two: Platform Nine and Three-Quarters _

There was something singularly loud about England, Clara thought as she stood at the edge of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, her eyes narrowed against the steam coming from the train. Located in the depths of Pyrenees, Beauxbaton was always near-silent with only the gentle click of shoes, the swish of silk and the murmur of voices to disturb the mountains. Now Clara couldn't seem to escape the noise.

"Now," her mother was saying breathlessly, rubbing a finger along the beak of a tawny, horned owl that sat importantly in it's cage. Hooting softly, it nipped at her nails with such affection that Mrs. Deschamp giggled. Although, both Clara's father and sister hadn't been able to come, her mother would have sooner flown back to France than stay at home waiting for her daughter's first owl. "Such a lovely creature - really should have gotten one sooner. Back to business - yes. Dear, you have to remember to take care of George-"

"Why must we name him George?" Clara inquired again for the millionth time it seemed, her exhaustion rising ever higher as her mother took up the usual stance of unflinching confidence.

"George is a splendid name,  _ mon lapin _ ," she began sternly, latching the cage door shut once more. "Very English. We are not in France anymore. We must do as the English do. We must speak as they do. Act as they do-"

"Name air owls George as ze doo," Clara said tiredly, slipping to English as her mother gave her a reproving glance.

"Vairy funny,  _ mon lapin _ ," Mrs. Deschamp seethed, before switching back to French. "It is funny to mock but I know that you barely have a trace of an accent - you're father worked too hard with you. If you are to speak, speak properly."

"Hello, wizards and witches of England," Clara said lamely in English, looking dully around at the bewildered glances of the passing people. "I have come to attend your funny, little school. I am very happy about it. Can you not tell?"

"Very good!  _ Etonnant _ !" Clapping gleefully, Mrs. Deschamp moved forward with a wide smile, straightening errant hairs that had been swept into her daughter's face by the cruel breeze sweeping down the platform. Unsurprisingly to Clara, it seemed that it would storm before the day was out. "You make me so proud."

Clara said nothing, glancing around once more as the train gave a sharp whistle. A family down the way with striking red hair was scrambling about, hauling a rather impressive number of suitcases into the tight door of the train.

"It's all rather lively, isn't it?" Mrs. Deschamp suddenly said, her words breathless and her cheeks flushed with color as she stared curiously around. "They are all so very… So very… I do not entirely have a word…"

"They seem rather spoiled to me," Clara murmured, staring down the line as a boy in green robes snarled something fiercely up at a woman who appeared to be his mother.

"You cannot judge them all by one," Clara's mother muttered, looking disapprovingly down at the pair before quickly turning her daughter's attention back to her with a hand to her cheek. "Now, dear, you must be nice. You don't only represent yourself anymore but the whole of Beauxbaton. Be mindful of your manners and - and be careful."

There was a fear in her mother's eyes that Clara couldn't entirely shake - something that made all of the self-pity and anger slip away.

"I will write, mama," she whispered, giving her a soft smile before reaching forward to kiss her gently on the cheek.

"Oh please do - as often as you can but not often enough to interrupt your studies, mind you." Forcefully, she pulled her daughter into a hug, kissing both of her cheeks roughly.

"Arthur!" A red-headed woman bellowed frantically down the platform. "Arthur, what are you doing? It's about to go!"

"Oh dear," Mrs. Deschamp whispered, now frantically nudging Clara up the rickety train steps and into the train, hurriedly shoving luggage in after her as she yelled last minute advice. "Don't try and teach the teacher now, dear. Even if you've learned the lesson already at Beauxbaton. It'll just make it easier for you if you've already been taught it. And - and mind your food. I know you skip meals - now, don't try to deny it. You need your nourishment. Why, you're already skinny enough-"

"Mama, the train's starting up," Clara said gently as George was shoved into her hands, causing the owl to give a indignant hoot and spread it's wings in an obvious show of offense.

Glancing around frantically, her mother moved at a slow jog down the platform as the train jolted to life. "You must write, Clara-"

"I promise I will, mama-"

"And don't forget to feed George-"

"I read that they have an owlery, mama-"

"He needs love. He's of a very delicate temperament-"

"I love you, mama." Mrs. Deschamp had now broken into a full jog to keep up with the train.

"Oh, I love you too, dear - Don't forget to write!" She screamed, finally unable to keep up, her eyes wide with worry.

"You need to close that." Clara glanced up to see a boy in red robes with even redder hair stroll importantly toward her. Freckles shadowed his cheeks and - Clara blinked, staring hard at a rather shiny badge pinned to his robes.  _ Bighead Boy _ , it read in wide, swooping letters. Apprehensive, she stared up at him until finally, with a great, long sigh he reached around her and shut the train door. "Are you a first year?"

"Um -  _ oui _ ." Quickly, she stopped herself. "I mean to say yes. I suppose I am."

"Hm." His eyes narrowed on her for a second, his lips thinning her concentration. "Well, I am Percy Weasley. Head Boy." He pointed importantly at the badge that read  _ Bighead Bo _ y before sweeping a hand at the train's hallway in a general way. "If you need anything - no matter what house you get sorted into - I should be the one that you see first. I should now all the answers - an questions, comments, critiques…"

He let the sentence wander off as he eyed her. Clara blinked rapidly. He was talking very fast. And although her English was well enough it was taking her a considerable amount of time to fully grasp what he was trying to say. Although in the end it didn't seem to really matter as he cared on.

"You should find a compartment. There will be compartments for everything." With that he swept around her and went off to handle - Well, whatever Bighead Boys needed to handle on trains filled with witches and wizards, Clara supposed.

George gave an unimpressed hoot, eying the redhead as he swept away with contempt.

"I second zat," Clara murmured, letting some of the restrained English slip as she glanced down into the hallways of the train.

Moving toward the nearest corridor, Clara watched as lights lining the hall flickered on, illuminating the burgundy carpets. Holding George closely to her chest, she peeked farther in to see that sliding doors closed off the compartments from the hallways, an expansive window showing the whole of England as it passed by opposite the locked doors. Nervously, Clara tugged her luggage along behind her to the nearest compartment and tapped on the door softly.

Silence. The soft rustling of clothing and then a hesitant voice: "Um… Come - come in?"

Softly, the door slid open to reveal a rather chubby boy with buck teeth and a mess of blonde hair with wide, almost fearful eyes in red robes. For a moment, neither of them said anything, both unsure of how to proceed.

"This compartment - I'm sorry. I'm rather new -" Clara started in awkwardly, inching forward. "May I - Is there perhaps an opening that I might-"

"Oh!" the boy exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Oh! You want to sit - sit here with me?"

Clara glanced around, a bit taken aback before meeting his gaze once more with a smile. "Very much so, if you wouldn't mind."

"Mind? Blimey!" Quickly, he reached forward, hoisting her backs into the half-filled luggage racks over a window before Clara could say anything. Grinning, he stuck out his hand. "Neville - Neville Longbottom." Pointing to his red robes, he shut the door to the compartment. "Gryffindor - you said you were new?"

Hesitantly, she sat on the plush seats across from him, still clutching George to her chest as he eyed the boy suspiciously. "Er,  _ oui  _ \- I mean yes. My family just moved here from France and - What on Earth is that?"

From within the depths of his robes, Neville had pulled out a rather large toad which gave a hearty croak as it emerged. The boy blinked. His toad blinked. "Oh this? This is Trevor. My toad. Bit clumsy - get's lost a lot."

"Oh," Clara said lamely and there was an awkward moment of silence. Outside the wind had picked up, the combination of the chill air and the rain making the windows fog. Clara tried to desperately to think of something -  _ anything  _ to say.

"You're new," Neville finally started slowly and she felt a knot loosen in her chest at the resumed effort of conversation. "Does that mean you've no idea about the houses?"

"Oh well, my papa told me a bit - I had to learn quite a lot before I could come." Clara left out the part about having to learn it in only five days. Her brain still ached from all the books that she had had to read.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

The conversation spluttered to a halt once more. Outside the wind gave a low moan. Clara's brows furrowed. It felt almost as if-

"Is the train slowing?" she questioned, trying to see through the fogged window. "Have we reached it already?"

Neville looked just as confused. Shoving Trevor back into his robes, he got up and opened the sliding doors to peek about the corridor. "No. Not nearly. We shouldn't even be halfway there at this point."

Brows furrowed, he moved back into the compartment, rubbing his sleeve along the glass to clear it of fog before looking out, so close that his nose squashed to the window. "I think - I think I see something."

Clara's brows rose. "See something?"

"Dark…" Neville muttered, pulling back from the glass with a befuddled expression. "Odd - but I guess - no - Harry. Harry and Hermione and Ron would know." With a decisive nod, he moved swiftly to the door. "Be right back. I'll go ask some friends."

"Should I -?" She was already half out of her seat before she stopped, sinking back down at Neville's flippant wave of the hand.

"Only be a second." And then he was gone.

Clara gulped, watching the corridor lights flicker. In his cage, George shuffled uneasily.

"Oh yes, this seems very safe," Clara grumbled softly to George who gave a hoot of agreement, his eyes flicking watchfully along the bit of corridor that they could see.

The minutes seemed to tick by. Neville still wasn't back. A deep knot tightened in Clara's stomach, making her feel more and more anxious by the second. The wind howled. The train moaned. The lights flickered once more.

"I'll be right back," Clara whispered to George as he gave a distressed hoot as she set his cage to hang on a hook beneath the cargo.

Swiftly, she peered into the hallway. If Neville had found his friends then he would surely know what must be going on - and if not that then he would have some shred of guesswork. Besides, Clara consoled herself, sneaking glances into compartment after compartment, she would feel better in a group of people.

The lights flickered once more and Clara stumbled, hitting her shin on a trunk that had been left in the hall.

She staggered on just as the train came to sudden stop, sending her flying into the wall. Someone in one of the compartments gave a soft scream.

The lights went off. Fear coiled inside her, sending her heart into a mad dash as she fumbled with the nearest compartment handle, her fingers clumsy and clammy as she glanced frantically around. The halls had gone eerily quiet and a sudden, bone-numbing chill had seeped into the air. It was so dark that Clara could barely see her own hands as she futilely tugged at the latch.

"Blimey, just let them in already, George," a voice grumbled from the other side of the door and Clara was suddenly falling forward as the person - George - did just that.

"Oof!" Both of them went tumbling back, barely landing safely on one of the compartment seats in a tangle of limbs.

" _ Je suis desole! _ " Clara gasped, trying desperately to right herself but only succeeding in tumbling backwards again.

"Wha-?" Strong hands grasped her waist, barely catching her.

"Sounds like we got a female," a voice said from somewhere to her left as Clara took a breath, her hands going to someone's shoulders.

"Female!" Another voice gasped gleefully.

"They come to us even in the dark," the first voice sighed as if he was asking: what can we do?

"Will you two shut it?" Clara blinked up at the deep voice, her eyes narrowing on the man that she was sitting on. Even in the dark she caught the flash of teeth as he grinned. "Didn't catch your name."

"Clara -" His hands squeezed her waist reassuringly. She was suddenly all too aware that her hands were still situated on his shoulders and that she was still on his lap. "You can let me go now."

"Ice cold~" two voices sang softly in the darkness.

"Yeah. Just a…" His words wandered off into silence and Clara had the sudden notion that she would much rather stay where she was. Her palms flattened against his shoulders as she leaned closer to him, her eyes pulled to the compartment door as if by threads. Her teeth chattered, her body shrinking down until she was pressed so tightly to the boy that she had fallen onto that she could feel the wild beat of his heart beneath his close.

Standing in the doorway was a figure so tall that it nearly reached the ceiling, it's robes fluttering about it's body as if they were three sizes too big. No one moved. No one even breathed. In that moment it was as if the very air in Clara's lunges was being sucked right out, her whole body numbing as she stared unblinkingly at the figure.

Every second was eternal and suddenly it felt as if Clara was falling down a very long, very dark well - the light seeping away from everything until she was suspended - stuck in that loop… Falling… Falling…  _ Falling _ …

Clara blinked, drawing in a breath of air. The figure was gone.

"What the bloody hell was that?" the voice to her left whispered and Clara thought she heard a strain there, as if he was shaken to his very core.

The lanterns flickered back to life, at first a bit unsteady and then evening out as the Hogwarts Express rattled back to life. Clara finally caught a glimpse of the boy she had fallen into. His hair was a mess of red, freckles playing along his nose. His jaw was strong and there was a tip to his lips that held some mischief even as he drew a shaky breath, his honey eyes still on the half-open compartment door.

"I don't know but I don't want that git coming back anytime soon." The boy blinked, looking down at Clara as if he was seeing her for the first time. Briefly, his ears went scarlet.

"This, George, is what we call a female - female say hi to George." Clara blinked glancing over to see a boy that looked exactly like the one that was apparently named George.  _ Twins _ , a small voice in her head whispered and then an snider one chipped in _. Oh very good. Next we'll learn the alphabet. _

"I um - 'm vairy zarry," she fumbled, going scarlet as her words muddled together, an unwelcome accent drenching the English. Unsteadily, she leapt to her feet, straightening her clothes. "I mean - I'm very sorry. I was - my compartment friend - Neville - he just left. And then the train stop - stopped and the light… My name's Clara Deschamp."

They were staring at her like she was crazy. Her mouth slammed shut.

"You're very attractive," a boy sitting across from the twins with dreads and a warm, chocolate complexion suddenly said. He blinked as if suddenly realizing that he had said anything at all. " I mean - in a completely, er non-sexual way. Like intellectually attractive. You look like you could get down and dirty with some reading. Ha ha. Like you could do my homework. Not that I would ever-"

"Please stop," the other twin that wasn't the one that Clara had fallen into said, looking pained. "You're hurting more than yourself."

"Don't mind Lee," George said, giving her a wink that sent Clara blushing all over again. "We found him talking to himself in a corner one day and decided to be nice to him-"

"Can't get away from him since," his twin sighed, eying the disgruntled boy with disdain.

"We attract the loopy ones," George confided and Clara couldn't help but return his grin with a shy smile and his grin widened. "That's better."

Just then, the door jerked open, revealing a rather easily looking boy in green robes, his hair a whitish blond, panting.

"Oh joy," George's twin said, obviously feeling the exact opposite as he eyed the boy. "Malfoy's come to say hello."

"Or wet himself," Lee grumbled.

Looking simultaneously horrified and disgusted, Malfoy slammed the compartment door shut.

"Bye then," George said, his eyes still on the door before they flicked back to Clara. "Don't hang around that lot, if you can, Clara love. He smells like eggs and has a tendency to lie."

"Plus we read it in the stars that he's supposed to have a bad hair day sometimes this week," his twin threw in sagely, nodding. "Wouldn't want to be associated with that mess, would you?"

"You knew I was new?" Clara questioned, quirking a brow as the twins smirked knowingly.

"We never forget a pretty face," they said in unison.

"I-" Just then, a flash of blonde hair and red robes caught Clara's eyes, sending her rushing to peer around the corner and into the corridor. Sure enough, she watched as the boy ducked into the compartment that she was pretty sure was hers. Throwing an apologetic glance over her shoulder, she hurriedly said: "Thank you so much and I really am sorry. Must be going." and rushed off down the hall for Neville.

Gasping, Clara turned sharply into her compartment, greeted by a soft hoot from George - she blinked, thinking of the human George briefly - and a shocked stare from Neville.

"Blimey, where have you been?" He stared at her, drawing Trevor the Toad out from his robes. "And why do you look so red?"


	3. The Sorting

There something singularly awful and exciting about standing in front of millions of students in a line of witches and wizards that were younger than Clara by two years, waiting to be sorted by a hat that had just sang to them. In Beauxbaton, there were no houses. The day that you entered the chateau, you were put into classes by your last recorded magical class.

Clara had never been somewhere… Her lips tipped down as the students in front of her shuffled forward, her eyes sweeping around the great hall. Dirty wasn't a good word to use. Worn, maybe? Yes. Her lashes fluttered uncertainly as she flicked her eyes to the polished wood that poked out between an array of plates, all a dull white. Everything was so dizzyingly different here than in Beauxbaton, Clara thought,shutting her eyes tightly. Four long tables with benches instead of proper seats ran all the way to the great doors at the end of the hall.

In France, there was always a cold, quiet that encompassed every room. Small, circular tables had made up the Beauxbaton great hall covered with baby blue tables and china to match. Instead of stone walls ringed with gargoyles holding bowls leaping with flames, the walls of her old school had been barely walls at all, made nearly completely of glass. Chandeliers had gleamed with light above the females of Beauxbaton. Now - Clara glanced up at the inky sky above that made up the ceiling of Hogwarts - candles hung suspended in the air, flickering against the night sky above.

It made the small, French girl strangely disquieted. There had never been very much noise in Beauxbaton, the very atmosphere warranting the females to speak softly. But here, no one ever seemed to be quiet. Everything was so loud. A flash of thunder lit the small windows lining the great halls wall, making the chatter of the British students in the hall swell in a sort of contest. Clara's head throbbed painfully.

Up ahead, Clara caught sight of a long line of wizard and witches, all in colorful robes, most with a curious twinkle of mischief and amusement. Split between the two long tables was a stiff chair which held a wizard with long silver hair that seemed to blend into his beard. Sparkling eyes peered above half-mooned glasses.

Sitting in front of the long table was a small stool with a rather stout women standing beside it with a cheery smile and a rosy tint to her cheeks,calling forth nervous student after nervous student to sit on the stool and have a raggedy hat thumped on their heads.

"SLYTHERIN!" A small slit formed in the dusty fold of the hat and a thick, old voice exclaimed from the fabric. Clara flinched at the sudden roar that came from a table to her far left, all in green robes as the boy bounded from the chair.

"DESCHAMP, CLARA!" At first, Clara didn't move from her place facing the chair, unsure of how to proceed as her ears were bombarded by a million yells.

"GRYFFINDOR!" Somone to her right shouted.

"SHUT UP, DINGUS! YOU COULDN'T TELL MERLIN FROM A MUGGLE ON YOUR BEST DAY!"

She hardly knew what they were saying, so quickly were they hurtling insults at each other.

"Come along, dearie," the stout woman whispered with a friendly smile, motioning to the stool. Cautiously, she obeyed. If she was being honest with herself, the whole procession of the sorting and the houses confused her. Dismally, she remembered her readings on Hogwarts. Although they were sorted into different houses, all students were given the same courses. In fact, Clara had found that the sorting was more to determine...constitute.

Briefly, Clara caught the scent of burning cloth and old books before a loud voice sprang clearly through the hall:

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table in front of her, all its occupants wearing honey yellow robes, burst into cheers, a few jumping up in their excitement.

"Oh dear - welcome," the pudgy woman gushed pulling her up into a warm hug that Clara honestly didn't know how to respond to. The scent of earth and warm, sunkissed flowers reached her, Clara's nose twitching as the urge to sneeze came over her, the top of the witches hair tickled her nose. She was a whole head shorter. Finally, with one final squeeze, she pulled away, her eyes watery as she motioned for Clara to go toward the still cheering table. "Just over there. Just over there. Don't be shy now."

A flash of fiery red hair caught her eyes as she made her way tentatively to the table. She blinked, sitting at the long table directly beside her own were witches and wizards in red and right in there midst were the two twins that she had met on the train. Slowly a smile formed on George's lips - Clara was 90% sure it was true because his robes were slightly more wrinkled, especially around the collar and tie - his brother grumbling something to the dark skinned witch beside him. An odd sort of warmth ran through her as he sent her a wink, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like: don't worry, Clara love. We'll convert you to the dark side still.

It was the sort of warmth that came from finally recognizing someone in a sea of strange faces.

"Why isn't she speaking?" Clara blinked again, her attention immediately snapping to the table that she was now standing at.

"Well, maybe it's because you're staring at her, you big baboon," a girl with flaming, red hair and the strangest pair of blue and green eyes that Clara had ever said quipped.

"That's not nice!" Another girl with big brown eyes and a yellow, sunflower bow in her curls scolded, making room beside her as a boy with equally curly brown hair sat beside her, looking slightly wide-eyed with dejection. "You look nothing like a monkey, Archie."

"But she said I did," he whispered back, clearly unconvinced as the ginger girl rolled her eyes, scooting over to make room for Clara which she quickly took, becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that all eyes and smiles had turned her way.

"Ignore the Vansteen siblings," the ginger confided to her, pouring her a cup of steaming cider and taking a tray of cookies from a person just a few seats away from her.

"You shouldn't ignore anyone!" the witch with the bow gasped, peering around her brother to give Clara a concerned glance. "It's mean."

"Isolation is the worst possible punishment," a Hufflepuff sitting across them nodded, spreading jam across a biscuit. He smiled brightly at Clara. "Jam and toast?"

"Um, no - no thank you." Clara had never been so -Well, honestly bombarded by kindness - in her whole life.

"Well, what are you lot waiting for?" the ginger demanded, glaring down the line of curious witches and wizards. "Give her some food and introduce yourselves. She's obviously a -" Her eyes cut to Clara. "I'm sorry. You look a might too old to be a first year."

"Fifth year -"

"Oh goodie!" Bow-Witch exclaimed, clapping excitedly and slapping her brother who was still staring sadly at his empty plate. "Did you hear that, Archie? She's a fifth year. We can show her around -"

"I don't think-" another boy across from her started, looking up from a worn paperback.

"We saw her first!" the girl retorted furiously. "You should have spoken up sooner, Callum instead of reading over that stupid little, muggle book again. You've already read it fi-"

"MUGGLES ARE JUST AS SIGNIFICANT TO OUR WORLD AS WATER IS TO THE MER-" the bespectacled boy bellowed, slamming his book so hard against the table that nearby silverware and plate jingled in protest.

Down the table, there was a splatter of, "hear, hear," along with some groans and grumbles. Obviously this was a well-tread upon subject.

"Here we go," the ginger beside her grumbled and the bowed witch sighed, setting a hand beneath her chin as the bespectacled wizard stood, face reddening.

"Move aside Cornelius Fudge; we have a representative," Archie murmured.

"I REFUSE TO LET TYRANTS AND TROLLS RUIN THE GREAT NAME OF THE MUGGLE!" The bespectacled boy roared on, sticking a finger in the air as he stared to the sky. "Sure their funny heating systems are so numerous that you may think - hey, are these funny little panted creatures ever warm? - but it is up to us to understand. And to help them find other means to warm their food because frankly they possess too many."

"Ah," the bowed witch suddenly gasped, the wizards paperback in her hands. She glanced at Clara with an understanding smile, showing her the cover filled with odd little cartoon drawings of metal boxes. "He's moved onto _Toasters, Heaters, and Other Wonders of the Heated World_."

"Better than that - what was it called?" The ginger witches brows creased in thought. "Kitten Island? Bunny? Animal something."

" _Playboy_ ," Archie said knowingly, nodding sagely - and a bit dreamily.

"I'm so sorry to say this now," Clara started hesitantly, silencing even the bespectacled future Minister of Magic. "But I have no clue what any of your names are."

A smile brightened all the faces surrounding her.

"So glad you asked, love," the ginger beside her grinned, throwing an arm around her shoulder.

"We should really get nametags for all the new lads that come in," a wizard a few seats away said knowingly and a couple nodded in agreement.

"Name Tags would take away the personal touch, Richard," the bowed witch said before smiling warmly and sticking a hand out to Clara. "Molly. Molly Vansteen."

And so it began.


	4. Through the Barrel in the Middle

Clara's head spun dully as she made her way doggedly up the stairs in the midst of a great sea of honey yellow - badgers, a small voice whispered knowingly in the back of her head and she winced. Aside from the massive amount of information that had just been dumped into her head (which consequently left her skull thumping painfully) Clara Deschamp was actually feeling rather… well, at home. It was absolutely ridiculous. Beauxbaton had felt like home as well - Clara dropped the thought, flinching as another sharp pain jabbed at the back of her skull.

"Oi," the ginger girl (whose name was Keela McKinnon) snapped to a curly haired boy who had the same badge as the ginger haired boy that Clara had met on the train. Well, aside from the fact that his said Head Boy in big scrolling print... But it looked very much like that other boys badge. In fact, Clara noticed him leading a mass of snickering wizards and witches in red robes. She wondered vaguely what the difference was. "We can give Clara the history later. Can't you tell the girl's sucked up as much information as she can handle?"

"But thank you so much for your wonderful retelling of Helga Hufflepuff's lovely ways," Molly piped in, giving the dejected looking head boy and warm smile.

"Absolutely rousing," her brother threw in.

"You left out how she gave safe passage and work to the house elves," Callum said dully, glancing at the many portraits that lined the corridor walls. In his hands, he still carried the thick, worn paperback.

Clara was barely listening. Her eyes had caught on the group of red robes that was slowly making its way up the stairs as the Hufflepuffs seemed to be descending toward - well, Clara didn't really know. She assumed the basement. Suddenly a pair of amber eyes caught her, a mischievous twinkle lighting their depths as he paused. His smile grew as he glanced at the mass of Hufflepuffs chatting quietly around her.

Suddenly, George's brother appeared beside him, a knowing smirk on his face as he threw an arm over his brother's shoulder. For a moment, both of them chatted amiably before both turned back to give her another once over. Clara's eyes narrowed. She wasn't too sure about that loo-

"BYE, CLARA LOVE!" George howled, leaning over one of the railings to grin down at her as she jumped. Her face went red as she stared up at them, her heart beating erratically.

"WE MISS YOU ALREADY!" Fred moaned, clawing at his heart as he stared at her in mock agony.

"DON'T BE AFRAID OF THE BADGERS, LOVE!" George assured her. "WE'LL STILL MAKE A GRYFFINDOR OF YOU YET!"

Clara moaned, even as a surprised giggle burst from her lips. All around her, her fellow house members murmured to each other, laughing at the twin's antics as George let out a wail, shuffling away with a sobbing Fred in tow.

"It's so hard seeing our baby go away," she thought she heard one of the twin cry in mock agony.

"You have to be strong, Freddie," George whispered, breaking down in his own fit of tears before they finally dragged themselves back to their group.

"How on earth do you know the twins?" Keela questioned, a note of astonishment gracing her tone.

" _Dans le train_ -" Clara spluttered, flustered before quickly translating it over to english. "I mean - on ze train. I - I -"

Clara stopped as she remembered falling into George's lap. That would be rather awkward to have to explain.

"Dreamy," Molly breathed, staring after the twins with a sort of glazed expression.

"Gross," Archie said with obvious repulsion. Beside him, Callum had turned all of his attention to the portraits, staring rather hard at one of a mother cradling her babe.

"The twins are a natural riot here," Keela confided to her as they continued on to their dorms. "They're-"

"Rebels," Molly gushed, her cheeks reddening.

"I think I might vomit," Archie said faintly.

"Oh, everybody loves a good rebel, Archie," Keela said, sending him a wink that made his face go red.

Clara's eyes furrowed as the siblings started to squabble. Rebels? The one thing that had been very rare in Beauxbaton was disorder. Everything had a place and everyone knew it. Organization. A system. Clara didn't particularly know if getting involved with such open trouble would be a good idea.

"Alley-oop!" the curly haired head boy sang and Clara blinked, finally glancing around. They were in a darkened corner of a corridor that wasmostly brightly lit with torches. Portraits of food hung jovially on the walls and the smell of pumpkin and fresh baked bread filled the warm little hall. At the moment, the mass of Hufflepuff was standing before a stack of barrels and crates shoved into a nook rather disorderly.

Stepping forward, the head boy tapped out a swift rhythm on a barrel two from the bottom and wedged in between two others. The boy smiled broadly as the lid swung open and a few gave a cheer. One after another wizards and witches began to crawl through. Each barrel was stout enough to fit two children at a time, perhaps three and Clara stared in wonder as one after another they went through until it was her turn.

"On you go," the head boy said warmly, gesturing for her to make her way in. Unsure, Clara peered inside, seeing a warm flickering light at the end of a long tunnel. She had no choice. And frankly, she was curious herself. Stepping forward, she ducked down and began to crawl through on her hands and knees. Beneath her fingers to felt the floor squish softly and she suddenly realized that the tunnel was made of enchanted moss, soft and warm to the touch with an almost fairy tale sparkle to it as she went along, lighting her way just enough.

As she drew closer to the light, she caught the warm rabble of people and the sweet smell of logs in a fire and herbs and plants. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes for a second before making her way quickly out of the tunnel.

Clara's breath caught, her eyes widening as she straightened and finally got to look around. The Hufflepuff common room was low-ceilinged with a nicely worn wood floor and red-brick walls that held the heat coming from a series of fireplaces snuggled into the walls. Vines tickled along the walls, random, beautiful flowers blossoming and budding along it. All along the ceiling, potted plants were fanned out on dainty hooks. As Clara watched the ceiling rippled and a light sprinkle rained down on a portion of plants.

Warm, yellow tapestries hung along the wall, tickling the circular windows that ringed the very top of the walls and through them Clara caught glimpses of midnight starlight catching along grass and the yellow tips of dandelions.

Framed off by heavy columns, the vast common room stepped down into another tier with a series of couches with plush cushions and fluffy blankets rolled neatly into wicker baskets. Rows and rows of them fanned out from a flickering stone fireplace. Clara saw a few Hufflepuffs, laughing and chatting animatedly to each other as they grabbed up a pole and closed their eyes for a brief moment. When they opened them a plump marshmallow would be ready to roast or fruits or veggies. Some even were huddled around a dutch oven or a pie iron trying to make some delectable snack or other. All around them, the ceiling - far different from the main common room - beat quietly with starlight, the sky dark as ink. Somehow, Clara could see a huddle of trees around the campsite.

"How do you like it?" The smirk on Keela's face already told Clara that she knew the answer and a glint in her eyes spoke of her pride. Brash and bold, the Irish witch was wholeheartedly Hufflepuff.

" _Beau_ ," Clara breathed, still taking it all in. Her eyes had finally turned to her left, suddenly seeing that there was yet another tier, framed off and accessible from a small step down. Books lined the walls, all looking strangely worn. Lamps hung from the ceiling and stood gracefully beside desks and plush couches. Soft, honey rugs lay across the wood floors and in front of fireplaces.

"I'll take that as a good thing," Keela said.

"Oh, Clara!" Molly and her brother approached, a slice of bread with butter that still steamed from the fire held in her hands. "I thought you had already gone to bed. Would you like to? I know that being around all of these people - well, the first day is always hard."

"I -" If Clara was being honest she was absolutely exhausted even though her inner most self screamed for her to explore more. Finally, her eyes drooped, a part of her brain clicking off as she yawned. "Can wee zay tomorrow and explore?"

"Definitely bed, then." Keela nodded, leading the way as Molly gave her a shy smile and followed her brother over to the reading area where Callum was situated.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Clara!" she said cheerfully, giving her a broad smile and a wave. "I'm sure we have some classes together."

Clara had spent so much time staring around at the common room that she hadn't noticed the two round, wooden doors that stood importantly at either side of the main common area - one with a depiction of a 1950's cartoonish witch holding a broom with a poof of blond curls and the other with a retro 1950's boys with a top hat sitting beside a niffler.

"Now, the doors are enchanted. Boys can't get in and if they try to our witch will give them a right talking to." Standing on the door, the the 1950's witch winked and gave a merry wave. "Another thing is that it can tell where you want to go - there are too many of us to stay in one room so once you touch the knob, it sorts out where you want to be. I'm going to head up to my room unless…"

"No," Clara said with a shake of her head and a tired smile. "Zat is vairy kind but I will just go to sleep. Thank you."

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Clara," she said with a soft smile before opening the door and shutting it softly behind her.

Taking a breath, Clara reached forward and did the same stepping into a room lit entirely by copper lamps and a roaring fire in the center of the room that exuded just enough heat to warm Clara pleasantly. A couch sat thickly in front of the fire, robust and plump with worn yellow fabric and a wicker basket with blankets on either side of it. The rest of the area was covered with a random assortment of rugs that - far from making it seem jumbled and odd - add a charming quirkiness to the room. Taking a look around, Clara noticed that her trunks were set beside the bed closest to her on the left. Tentatively, she stepped forward.

Far from lavish, the Hufflepuff dorm rooms were cozy and appealing in the cluttered way that a cherished home was. Her bed was placed snuggling along the wall of a nook big enough to allow for a desk as well as a dresser and a nightstand. Glancing around quickly, she realized that there were six little nooks in total, all circling around the fire. A half moon window sat back a bit in the wall and Clara was happy to see that the wall that her bed was placed against had plenty of book space. Hanging on the wall was a copper foot warmer and a plush, dandelion yellow rug sat just beside her bed which was made up of warm, honey sheets with a patchwork quilt thrown along the foot of it.

Balefully, Clara looked to her trunks. She wanted to unpack but… She rubbed her eyes, finally getting out her wand and waving it at her trunks which immediately sprung to action, unfolding themselves from the depths of her packs as the dresser opened in welcome. She had learned the spell long ago considering her families eagerness to travel. Yawning, she went over to the mouth of her little nook and unfastened the decorative rope that held a thick set of patchwork curtains that immediately slid closed, cutting her off from the rest of the room. As she turned, her bags slid calmly beneath her bed, leaving her a pair of striped pajamas that her mother had packed for her.

 _Mommy loves you,_ the letter read in sweeping text, open on her night clothes. _I thought they might not have fed you right so I packed a few treats. Be sure to write!_

"Oh bugger," Clara moaned, hopping out of her shoes and sliding out of her robes quickly. She spun, slipping on her slippers and she threw on the pajamas and went over to the chest of drawers.

Sitting beneath Clara's bras was a series of finely wrapped pastries bags all tied in bows. Clara sighed, a smile tugging at her lips as she set them on her desk. Her heart squeezed. Beauxbaton had always been close to home - she had never been this far from it. Desperately, she tried to choke back the sudden onslaught of tears.

"Oh, you coward," she said angrily in French, swiping at her eyes as she went to her bed and threw back the covers. "You're old enough to not need your mother to tuck you in."

But suddenly Clara felt very alone as she snuggled under the warm, thick blankets. Her eyes drifted to the light flickering along the cracks in her curtains. Yes. She felt very, very alone.


	5. The Boggart in the Wardrobe

Clara stared around the Great Hall in consternation, the chatter of the various houses almost deafening as it echoed off the stone walls. It was mind-numbingly early in the morning and Clara rubbed her eyes limply. She had woken up that morning, eyes crusty from crying in her sleep and a bone deep ache that came from sadness through the night.

Feeling rather self conscious, she side stepped around a pair of rushing first years who were in near tears at being late. Brows furrowing, Clara pulled out her pocket watch. No. Definitely not late. They must have wound their watches wrong. Clara turned to tell them so but was met only by the sight of an empty corridor.

"You look like you're lost," came a deep voice from beside her, making her jump in surprise and whirl around to find George grinning down at her. Shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning down and tipping his head to the side, he gave her a long once over with those mischievous amber eyes of his.

" _Mon Dieu. Tu m'as fait peur_ ," she whispered, clutching her heart and giving him a shy smile. "I - I - Well, a couple of my roommates led me here but… I can't find the people that were with me yesterday…"

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen!" Came a dramatic voice and she turned to see Fred grinning down at her. "I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be the loyal ones in this bloody school."

"Leave it to Gryffindor to pick up the slack," a dark-skinned witch said as she walked forward to stand beside the ginger haired wizard. Clara stared at her in awe for a moment. It looked like she was built from something more sturdy than rock. Although her form was feminine, she could probably do more pull-ups and pushups than most of the wizards here. She flashed an array of pearly whites, offering Clara a small wave. "Angelina Johnson."

"Quidditch extraordinaire," Fred threw in helpfully, getting a playful push from the dark-skinned witch.

Clara glanced to George who had moved to stand beside her. The two seemed rather close. George gave a mock gag, rolling his eyes. Stooping down, he whispered softly, "They've been in love for years. Fred has pictures of her under his pillow."

"Well, well, well," a suave voice called, heralding Lee's approach as he slid in next to Angelina with a swathy smile and raised eyebrows. "If it isn't my love, my moon - The woman of my dreams -"

Angelina glanced around. "Yeah. Where did Katie go?"

Both twins howled in laughter and Clara couldn't help give a small giggle at Lee's dumbstruck expression.

"It hurts when you do that, Angelina. It really does." The dark skinned witch gave him a smirk before heading off to the Gryffindor table. Looking to Fred with a shrug, Lee smiled. "Katie's smokin' too though."

"You're an absolute pig, Lee," George drawled, his eyes flickering with affection before he turned back to Clara. "You can sit at the Gryffindor table, Clara."

"It's only right, really," Fred said lazily. "Rubbish that you were sorted into Hufflepuff."

"I like Hufflepuff…" Clara whispered, glancing nervously to the table in question. The feeling of not seeing or knowing where Keela, the Vansteens or even Callum had surprised her this morning. It was the kind of throat-tightening panic that came from being late to class or finding out that you were absolutely screwed on an exam. But not sitting at her own table only a day after she had been sorted into it…

"Hufflepuff's are a delight, Clara." George's eyes warmed as he patted her head. "Some more than others."

Something tight coiled around her heart, sending fire to lick up her face. Clara blinked, taken aback.

But just like that, George gave her a wink and turned away, throwing her a glance over his shoulder. "Live on the dangerous end of the road, Clara."

"It's rather fun here," Fred threw in, walking after his brother, both followed by Lee who sent her a smile.

For a moment, Clara shuffled where she was, glancing between the two tables. In all honesty, the prospect of sitting awkwardly through a breakfast where no one spoke to her - or worse, if they did and she had to make clumsy conversation - wasn't appealing in the least. She bit her lip. Perhaps she was making things harder than they needed to be.

Holding her bag tightly to her side, she rushed over to where the twins and Lee had sat, smiling shyly as she sat beside the dark skinned wizard.

"We knew you had it in you!" the twins cheered together, pouring her a cup of coffee which she accepted gratefully.

"It's more fun over here anyway," Lee confided to her.

"Not particularly because of the house," Fred shrugged.

"Only because of the company," George finished just as another ginger wizard with freckles plopped down opposite them.

Clara stared hard at him for a moment. She was sure she knew him - The glint of a badge caught her attention and she clapped, startling everyone around her and pointed to him in glee. "Bighead boy!"

Everything went silent. Silverware stopped clinking. Groups stopped talking. Clara slowly lowered her hand as the seconds ticked on, worry furrowing her brow. Had she been -

The twins roared, howling as they clutched their stomachs and their laughter slowly caught across the table. Clara stared, wide-eyed across the table at Percy, guilt and confusion mixing together as his cheeks reddened.

"Give her a greeting, Bighead Boy!" Fred guffawed, tears running down his face.

Percy slammed back from the table, his teeth gritting and his face scorching red as he glared down at his brothers with loathing. "Do your jokes have no end?"

With that he stormed away, leaving the table to slowly quiet down. Fred wiped the tears away, sniffing. "End to jokes? What kind of dull prattle is that?"

"I didn't mean to embarrass him…" Clara whispered, staring after the ginger haired wizard in concern. She glanced back to the twins, biting her nails anxiously. "His badge said Bighead Boy on the train-"

"Oh we know, love," George assured her, a wicked glint in his eyes. "We're the ones who made it say that."

"A shame he found out before he reached the school," Fred murmured.

"That's mean," Clara gasped.

"If you knew our brother, you wouldn't think so," Fred said, taking a bite of toast.

"He _is_ a bit of a prat sometimes," Lee remarked, digging into his breakfast.

"Most of the time," the twins corrected together.

Clara wasn't too sure. She glanced back at the hall entrance. He had looked rather hurt. Sighing, she glanced back to see a dark haired boy with round glasses drop into a seat beside George, his expression rather downtrodden. He was followed by another red headed wizard and a rather bushy haired witch.

"New third-year course schedules," George said around a mouthful of toast, grabbing up a piece of paper and handing it to the three. He paused. " What's up with you, Harry?"

Clara glanced curiously at the three, trying to see around Lee.

"Malfoy," said the ginger haired wizard. Clara's eyes narrowed he looked uneasily familiar. Strangely similar to Fred and George.

All eyes turned to the table farthest away from the Gryffindors just in time to see a boy with silver and cold grey eyes pretending to faint with terror to the great delight of all at the table.

"I don't understand," Clara said in confusion, turning back to stare at the others for help. The three newest arrivals looked as if they had just noticed her presence and she finally caught full sight of them all. "Ah! Je te connais ! 'Arry Potter!"

She looked to George as if by instinct for approval earning an amused smile.

"We forgot introductions," George said, smiling softly. "Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and our littlest brother, Ron Weasley."

"The cutest of the Weasley brood," Fred said, pinching his brother's cheeks as ROn tried to swat him away.

Clara nodded, grinning broadly at all three of them as George gestured to her. "And this is Clara Deschamp. Newest Gryffindor."

"Hufflepuff," she corrected, tugging at her gold and black scarf with a wide grin. "I've heard so much about you. My father is always talking-"

She stopped as a large, warm hand rested on her arm, glancing up at George.

"You're speaking in French," he said, smiling gently with a soft look in his amber eyes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she whispered, blushing fiercely as she bit nervously at a piece of toast. She gave the three an apologetic smile. "It gets away from me."

The three gave her small smiles in return.

"Why iz zis white 'aired boy giving yoo trouble?" she said, mentally scolding herself again as she tried to reign in her accent. Absently, she noticed that George had taken away his hand.

"The dementors were on the train and Harry…" Hermione stopped, glancing at the boy in question as her lips tightened.

"I fainted," Harry said bluntly.

"I almost fainted," Clara said, taking a sip of coffee with a shrug. "I would have if it weren't for-"

Clara stopped, halting that train of thought abruptly as she choked on her coffee. She was about to say that if George hadn't been there, she would have fainted. The only thing that she meant - well, it was just nice to know that someone was there in the darkness. That she was being held and that she was fine and that someone else was going through the same fear and despair that she was.

"That little git," George said calmly, drawing the attention away from the flustered french witch with a small, knowing smile. "He wasn't so cocky last night when the dementors were down at our end of the train. Came running into our compartment, didn't he, Fred?"

Clara suddenly remembered the little boy with pointed features and that sour face. "Nearly wet himself."

"I wasn't too happy myself," George said, suddenly looking uneasy. "They're horrible things, those dementors…"

"Sort of freeze your insides, don't they?" said Fred.

Clara stared down at the swirling, creamy surface of her coffee. "They should have never been let out of Azkaban," she whispered, drawing the attention of the people around her. She remembered her readings on the fortress, shivering. "Evil should stay in it's nest."

"You didn't pass out, though, did you?" Harry said in a low voice and Clara frowned.

"Forget it, Harry," said George bracingly." "Dad had to go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he said it was the worst place he'd ever been, he came back all weak and shaking… They suck the happiness out of a place, dementors. Most of the prisoners go mad in there."

"In France we don't allow those vile creatures," Clara said with disgust, hands clenching. "Father spoke to me of their ways - told me about how they are bred. In darkness, with nothing but pain and sadness to feed from. When they were first found, it was in the rubble of the North Sea where Ekrizdis lured, tortured and killed muggle sailors. It was infested with them."

Her lips tightened as she thought of all the suffering that must have occurred within those walls. It revolted her, made her stomach turn that she could have ever been close to creatures like that. A warm hand rubbed along her back, catching her by surprise at it's comfort.

"We'll see how happy Malfoy looks after our first Quidditch match," Fred said, quickly changing the subject as he cracked his knuckles menacingly. "Gryffindor versus Slytherin, first game of the season, remember?"

"Oh," Clara brightened, sitting up straighter as George's hand stilled on her back. "You have Quidditch?"

"You play?" George asked, interest sparking across his face and Clara laughed.

"I'm afraid not. I'm rather clumsy on a broomstick," she admitted. "But I am a great supporter."

"You'll have to come cheer us on," George said with a wink and she snorted.

" _Oui_. I will come to support my house," she said with a smile.

"CLARA!" The white haired girl jerked, spinning to see Keela making her way toward her with an exasperated look on her face. "We were looking for you all over the place! Have you been here all this time?"

"Oh," Clara blinked up at the fiery Irish woman. "I'm sorry. I didn't know… My roommates brought me here…"

Mismatched blue and green eyes turned to take in the whole table and she looked mildly impressed. "You certainly move up in the world fast."

"I didn't see you at the table and-" Clara searched for words as she gathered up her stuff and stood, feeling guilty all over again.

"We tempted her over to the dark side," George said with a wicked smile.

"Sure did," Fred said, munching on a piece of bacon. "Blame us."

"Oh, I'm sure you did, handsome," Keela said with a wink that sent Fred grinning.

"Well, they usually just call me Lee," the dark skinned boy said with a slick smile as Keela rolled her eyes.

"Clara!" came a breathless exclamation as Molly ran up to them, pink cheeked and trailed by her brother and Callum. "We were looking all over for you! We thought that - Oh. Oh my. Well - Hee hee. Wow."

The sentence ended in her cheeks flaming even brighter as she caught sight of George and Fred and burst into hysterical giggles, twirling a piece of hair around her finger and batting her eyes to the twins' confusion.

"Oh brother," Archie muttered, looking vaguely disgusted.

"Yikes," Keela echoed before turning to confide in Clara. "Let's get her out of here before she makes an utter fool of herself and ends up sobbing in the Lake again." She turned back to the table with a fake grin, her voice raising. "Well, it has been an utter delight-"

"If you mean being able to feast on your lovely curves then-" Lee started out.

Keela quickly cut him off, not even seeming to notice that he had spoken. "But we really must be off."

"Hufflepuff business," Archie said formally as he grabbed ahold of his sister to try and wheel her away as she spluttered out incoherent words mixed with desperate spurts of laughter.

"Thank you so much for letting me sit with you," Clara said hurriedly as the others ushered a near hysterical Molly away.

"You looked too much like a lost kitten for us to leave you there," George admitted with a wink sending Clara spluttering and flustered.

* * *

Clara set her stack of books heavily on the worn wooden desk, sighing heavily as she looked around with a wary eye. All day she had been running about in this godforsaken school - not to even begin with the fact that every time she stepped outside it was an onslaught of rain and mud. She was half expecting the old blocks that were keeping this building standing to slide away and for there to be nothing more than storms and rubble.

Keela and the Vansteens had been sending her enchanted letters all day and they had been able to have lunch at her table but they had separated early in the day due to the fact that Clara had actually been bumped up to sixth year classes at the behest of Albus Dumbledore. Apparently, Beauxbaton curriculum was a year ahead of Hogwarts - a fact that Clara was a bit bitter about.

However, there did seem to be a few classes that Hogwarts deemed itself to be high above…

Clara stared begrudgingly stared down at the scrap of parchment. Transfiguration (Tuesday and Wednesday classes) along with Herbology and… Defense Against the Dark Arts which happened to be Monday and Friday. The first two, Clara found to be a bit ludicrous. Beauxbaton had a full herbal garden slickly named the Queen's Court and Transfiguration was one of the main charms of the French school. Beauty was definitely in the eye of the beholder and whenever possible Beauxbaton's inhabitants put whatever magic they could to the pursuit. Transfiguration was a main route.

Defense Against the Dark Arts however…

Clara felt like something very hot and uncomfortably moist was running along her spine as she glanced up to find a very real, very large dragon skeleton hanging suspended from the ceiling with a cauldron just a bit away.

Clara Deschamp felt absolutely and completely out of her element.

"Well, look who it is!" came an amused voice from behind her. Keela strolled up with a smirk. "Here to join the savages, I see."

"Don't be mean, Keela." Archie was short behind, his curls tousled by the wind. "She's been moaning about you all day, Clara. Think she's fallen for you."

"Oh, shut it," the Irish Woman snapped, slapping his shoulder with a slight blush. "I'm a cold hearted witch. I care for no one and feel nothing."

"I've missed you too," Clara said, slightly distracted by a sudden movement from the staircase that led down into the classroom at the very front. The whole area was rather archaic.

"Of course you did, love," Keela said with a smirk. "I'm a bloody riot."

"Speaking of riots," Archie mumbled, his eyes turning to a spot over Clara's shoulder.

"Well, well, well," a deep, sarcastic voice rang out, smoothly coming to a stop beside Clara. "If it isn't Archibald Winston Vansteen."

The smile that George was wearing honestly scared Clara a little bit. It was a tight one that made his amber eyes that usually burned so bright, seem cold and there seemed to be a stiffness to his shoulders that didn't seem to entirely fit him. It was like he had put on an ill-fitting suit.

Standing across from him, Archie's cheeks reddened, his eyes narrowing as he stared the redhead down, his gaze sharpening even more as Fred slid beside his brother.

"Fred. George," he said stiffly with an air of distant cordiality. "How's your day going?"

"Yikes," Clara heard Keela murmur as both of the twins smiled in unison.

George's eyes turned to Clara and a bit of warmth seeped back into them as he leaned down to her level. "Did Archibald here tell you that he's a chaser on the quidditch team?"

Clara's brows went up as she broke into a smile. "Archie!"

"It's really not-" Archie's cheeks were redder than ever as he stared rather sharply at the twins.

"Dodges every one of our bludgers," Fred quipped, his voice tight even though he was still smiling.

Clara blinked, suddenly becoming aware of the uncomfortable tension in the air that seemed to be radiating between the twins and Archie.

"Oh not this bollox again." Keela rolled her eyes heavenward. "Every bloody year-"

"We know you're enchanting your broom, you ogre loving twat," Fred suddenly said with such venom that Clara jumped.

"Because that's the only way that I could be missing your daisy soft throws?" Archie's words dripped with sarcasm as the twins gasped in disbelief.

"The only thing that's soft around here is you, Vansteen," George growled.

"It sounds like you're just scared that the Hufflepuffs are going to beat your behinds like your mother used to when you were babes," Archie snarled right back, his eyes lighting.

"What utter tripe," Fred rolled his eyes. "I can't even make up a proper response-"

"That's a new one. Usually we can't get you to shut your trap at all-"

"Better than not being able to open it to even confess-"

Archie's ears went red, his hands clenching. "I look forward to the day that we beat that smug little smirk-"

"Never," both of the twins said in unison sounding rather bored and the curly haired boy huffed before George continued on alone. "And for your information our mother never stopped beating us, Vansteen."

"We'll beat you to the dirt this year, Weasley," Archie retorted, nearly fuming with anger and putting so much emphasis on the name that both witches cringed.

"Which one?" they replied in unison.

A particularly wet cough broke any further interaction as a rather bedraggled wizard slouched down the stairs and to his desk, running an eye over the by now full classroom. He was a shabby wizard that looked rather scrawny and a bit like he had drank too much sherry and was still recovering.

"Please - I see a few of you have your books out - I would like you to put them all away. Out of sight," he said with a small smile and a wave of his wand that sent all the chairs flying back and turning his gaze to stare pointedly at the twins and their small group.

"Talk to you in a bit, Clara Love," George said softly, nudging her shoulder softly before following his brother across the room to where most of the Gryffindors sat.

Fumbling slightly to regain herself, she looked around and found that a boy with wavy blonde hair had sat beside her and was staring up at her with a rather expectant (awkward) smile. Clara threw a desperate glance to Keela who was already seated beside a still-fuming Archie who mouthed, sorry with a guilty glance.

"Go on," he said encouragingly even though she was already sitting down, shoving her books into her bag hurriedly. "Pop a squat."

Clara winced, giving him a tight smile before blinking in surprise and consternation as he scooted closer to her, his smile growing.

"You smell nice," he stated and Clara felt an odd sort of tingling rub up her spine as her chest tightened and she tried to move away without being noticed. "Don't say much, huh?"

"Um, thank you," she whispered, pointedly turning back to the front to catch Professor Lupin's final words.

"...Need your wands," was all that she got and she looked around in confused consternation as chairs squealed as they moved back and wizards and witches began to file out of the room.

"My name's Kenneth Towler, by the way," the wizard that she had been sitting by said rather eagerly as he shouldered in closer to her.

"Oh, um," she searched for something more to say before forcing a pained smile. "That's nice."

"There she is." Keela and Archie were waiting closer to the door as Clara shuffled in, finding the other students milling about a rather cluttered room that held a rather impressive wardrobe that wobbled and banged about sending the students into murmurs. Clara hurried over to the pair, dashing away from the rather uncomfortable presense of Kenneth Towler.

"That wizard is a bit…" Clara couldn't find the right word.

"Loopy," Archie said dully, staring across the room at the boy in question.

"Absolutely creepy AF," Keela supplied.

"Alright, everyone," Professor Lupin said, drawing the attention of the class. He was standing right beside the wardrobe. "In this wardrobe," he tapped in fondly and it gave a responding jangle, "there is a creature called the boggart. Dreadful creatures that like dark, enclosed spaces like the cracks behind doors, the slip of darkness beneath your bed. But the very first thing that we must know before we can begin to combat this is: What is it? What can it do to disarm and delay us?"

No one answered. Finally a Hufflepuff girl across the room raised her hand.

"Is it like a runespoor?" she asked, hopefully.

Professor Lupin seemed to consider, tipping his head this way and that before giving an apologetic smile. "No not at all, Miss Gengrin."

Across the room, George caught Clara's eyes and rolled his own.

"Boggarts take our fears - our deepest secrets and they use it. They make us see and hear and face our own monsters. And they feed off of it," he ended simply, pausing briefly before smiling again. "Now, who's first?"

Slowly, the students were shuffled into a disorganized line and Professor Lupin gave a few more instructions. Clara stared down at her wand, unsure. She had no idea what her deepest fear was. Maybe… Well, she didn't particularly like flobberworms. They were relatively harmless but she still got itchy and sick when she was around them. A sort of panic set in as she saw Keela go up, she was only two ahead of Clara. She needed to find out or she would be completely blindsided.

"Don't over think it, Clara love." The french witch glanced up at George's soft tone. "There's no right or wrong. You're safe in this room and if that boggart turns into anything nasty I'll be the first one up there."

"Miss Deschamp." Clara flinched, staring up at George for a moment more before she finally forced herself to turn and take an uneasy step forward.

All she had to do was turn her fear to a .

"Take a deep breath, Miss Deschamp," Professor Lupin called as the boggart began to shake, darkening and curling into itself. Clara's want pinched painfully into her palms and she clutched it to her chest. She didn't even want to blink. Her breath quivered out of her as it settled to the ground and began to take shape.

No one moved. No one breathed. Everything was silent except for the moaning sobs that erupted from -

Clara choked, her hands flying to her lips as her knees buckled.

The thing about fears is that the deepest ones aren't always at the surface of one's personality. And a dislike is not a fear. A person's deepest fear isn't something that needs to be said or chided on - it's just there, waiting in the darkest part of the mind.

"Oh my god," he heard someone whisper from behind her but her mind was too focused on the blinding terror - a terror so real and breathtaking that she couldn't help the scream that was bubbling up.

"You did this." It was a deep, guttural voice that shrieked along her ears. Definitely not her father's but her mind didn't register it as she gasped, flinching away.

Her mother's face was buried in the creased folds of Annabelle's robes, her silvery hair tangling over her body as she gave a bone shattering sob. Her sister - _Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle,_ her mind whispered urgently - so painfully dead. She forced a hand to her eyes, pressing hard as she rocked. Annabelle's eyes, wide and stare. _Accusing_.

"IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU!" Clara whimpered, hearing the pounding steps of her father advancing on her. He's right, her brain whispered to her before everything went silent.

Clara didn't realize that anything had changed - that the boggart, her fears - had gone back into it's dark hole. She was still trapped. Still there with her sister's accusing gaze.


	6. The Quiet Religion of Clara Deschamp

Long ago, when Clara Deschamp was but a child her mother had brought her into her garden and set her on her lap. This wasn't the first time she had been allowed into her mother's garden nor would it be the last but each time was something that Clara would always remember to be magical. Although she would never openly say it, her mother had always held a sort of enchanting beauty, something that transcended the physical and went into something utterly bewitching. _Magic_ , Clara small mind would supply.

Mysterious and somehow dangerous, Mrs. Deschamp's garden held all the best herbs and remedies that a witch would ever need. Cauldrons bubbled and brewed quietly in hearths set throughout the cobblestone greenhouse, situated beneath vines and brush so thick that only spells could keep them from catching fire. It was a place that Clara was sure the fairies kept home.

And her mother… Clara turned her young eyes to her mother - her mother who moved with such elegance that it made her feel clumsy and foolish - Her mother was the queen of them all, Fae and witch alike.

"I have something to tell you, _mon canard_." Clara shifted on the long bench that looped the tea tables in the garden, staring, open mouthed up at her mother as she moved from making tea to sit beside her daughter. For a moment, Clara was distracted. She almost seemed to float as she came toward her and for a moment Clara was struck dumb with longing. She wanted to be like her mother. More than anything, she wanted to throw away her tan skin and paint herself the same glowing ivory as her mother. She would give anything - _anything_ to be as her mother was.

"Clara dear." A light tap on her chin brought her back to herself and she abruptly sat up straighter, reminded of the etiquette classes that her Papa had insisted that she go to. Softly, her mother smiled before setting a plate of warm cookies in front of her. "You're father and I have something rather exciting that we've wanted to tell you."

"Papa?" Clara questioned, her amber eyes widening as they swept around the garden, expecting her bulky, hulk of a father to jump from one of the flower bushes.

"Well, I guess just me," her mother laughed, her eyes crinkling. "I have wanted to tell you, _mon canard_."

"You can tell me anything," Clara whispered solemnly causing her mother to laugh again and run a hand over her curls.

"Yes, I suppose I can." Her mother hesitated for a moment before drawing her closer. "Have you ever thought about - Well, have you ever been lonely?"

"No," Clara said bluntly, staring up at her mother who winced.

"Well, I'm sure that you've wanted someone to play with…"

"No."

"I…" Her word wonder off as she searches in vain. Eventually, her fingers grasp out, catching hold of Clara's to draw it nearer, press it to her stomach and smile. "Soon you will have a companion, mon canard. Someone to share your thoughts and feelings with. Someone for you to take care of."

Slowly, Clara drew her hand away, staring unseeingly at the flowing chiffon of her mother's dress, situated to delicately around her stomach.

"A...baby…" Clara whispered, her mouth working around the words.

"You will be so happy, _mon canard_ ," her mother promised, drawing her into a strong hug.

But Clara wasn't. She wasn't happy at all. She didn't know what she was but she knew for certain that the emotions swirling, so ugly and vile in her stomach, were not the swells of happiness.

At the age of six, Clara felt the hideous tangle of hatred and fear. Fear that someone would take her place, steal the love of her parents. And hatred that such a thing could ever exist.

Annabelle Deschamp, born second daughter to Willa and Alicio Deschamp was… perfect.

She did not scream nor fuss and her gaze was straightforward and honest. And Willa and Alicio loved her with a fierceness that burned Clara to her very core. Every moment that they held her and whispered her virtues into the top of her head as she slumbered quietly, ate away at Clara with a vengeance that scared the little witch to her very core.

She despised her sister for everything that she could never possess - all the things that made Annabelle her mother's daughter and shoved Clara farther and farther away.

"You were always so loud, _mon canard_ ," her mother gushed to her, cradling Annabelle with a tenderness that made Clara's heart squeeze. "It was always such a struggle to soothe you…"

Clara winced, drawing back into the door of the nursery as her mother cooed down at the little baby in her arm.

As the years furthered and her sister grew, her likeness to their mother only sharpening, and with it a deeper darkness began to form inside Clara. Hideous and wretched, she could feel it beating inside her like a living organ as she watched her sister play and laugh. Everything she did, every movement that she made was graced with a elegance that Clara could never hope to possess. As much as a flower is the result of a seed, Annabelle was their mother's daughter.

And it hurt Clara more deeply than she could ever express.

When Clara was small, there was but one religion that must be followed and that was the religion of Willa Deschamp. She was everything - everything that Clara ever wanted to be and thought that she could be. To Clara, whose small life had been held around this one holy thing, the sight of something that could touch it and speak to it was the most painful thing that she had ever endured.

It was at the age of ten that Clara began to wish.

Snuggled beneath her covers, she would squeeze her eyes shut and childishly call out into the world. There were no words to her wish - none that could grasp what she wanted - only the rhythm of her own selfish wants, drowning out everything but that one singular beat. And that was how she would fall into her restless sleeps. Calling out - not for her sister to disappear, never for that - for her sister to just be a little bit... _less_.

The visions started when Annabelle was six, coming in the forms of lucid dreams or hallucinations brought on by fever. At first, they were small. Little things like backing away before a cup went clattering to the ground or running to the door before anyone else had heard it ring. Both Willa and Alicio thought it was a blessing.

But eventually all blessing give way to curses.

In the night, Clara would wake suddenly to the screams of her sister shaken from another dream. Then the dreams moved to the daylight. Fever followed the youngest Deschamp like a shadow, close behind and barely touching. The young witch who had wished so hard watched as her sister crumbled, reduced to hacking sickness and thin periods where she couldn't keep down food for the visions.

Desperate, her parents searched for a way - some cure. They brought magicians from all of France - even reaching to the United States where stricter minds were at work. But there was no cure for talent and that was how they viewed it. Annabelle Deschamp had the sight and even though she would never be able to speak on her visions, no magical minded creature would ever be able to rip it from her.

An agony grew inside Clara. Every day was put to the task of trying to undo the curse that she had set upon her family. Her hands blistered and burned from the cauldrons that she set to burn. Her eyes swelled from the hours that she spent tearing through books. Nothing worked. _I wish it all away_ , she would cry at night, grasping out at the universe.

But what is done can never be undone.

Eventually, Clara's cries subsided, her heart filling over with a dull ache that drove her to softness. She stopped wishing. She stopped doing many things, choosing instead to live in the pursuit of her sister alone. Whatever she would become, whatever darkness that had already corrupted her heart, Clara promised that her sister would never feel it again.

That was the last time that Clara ever wished.


	7. Defend Yourself

"Usually," Professor Lupin was looking at Clara rather sadly. It was an emotion that she was growing accustomed to since the unfortunate happenings in his class weeks before. It was like everyone knew something about her that she hadn't given them.

For the last three weeks, she had been doing a rather fine job at hiding in the owlery, slipping up the stairs immediately after classes. Food had been hard to come by that first week but she had eventually seen a pair of sixth years tickling the fruit that was beside the Hufflepuff entrance and discovered the kitchen just beyond. From then on, it had been smooth sailing. Clara Deschamp was rather adept at dodging people and she had found that Hogwarts had more than enough hiding places.

The lines in his face deepened for a moment before he turned away, looking at a rather boring chart of incantations behind his desk. "Usually, having a group distracts the Boggart enough so that there are a few seconds of… disorientation." He turned back around and something in his eyes made Clara wince, recoiling into the stiff wood of the chair beneath her. "But… sometimes… a fear is so acute that it just latches on."

Clara took a breath. Then another one, trying to ignore how painful even that was. There was something about the pain - the pain of having it so blatantly laid out to her. That her sister dying. That her parents would inevitably blame her. There was something about it being labeled like that that made it so… _wrong_. It wasn't just a _fear_. It wasn't the jitters that you got when you got too close to the edge of a cliff. Or the scream that built inside you when you say the hair on a spider's leg.

It was the _truth_. It was like having your toes on the edge of that cliff constantly waiting for the rocks to give out. It was what Clara grew with. It was a part of her twisted soul like anything else.

"With all due respect, Professor-" Clara started in, bracing herself with a false smile.

"You've been avoiding your friends." There was something sardonic about his smile - something that made the silver-haired girl blink. Heavily, Professor Lupin sat into his creaky chair, a few stray papers fluttering to the floor. "That red-haired girl started cursing when you swept out last class. She grabbed Mister Vansteen by the collar and started growling at him like a rabid dog. And then Mister Weasley…" Professor Lupin clicked his tongue sharply. "He's been rather moody lately. I've heard that his Quidditch practices haven't been going so well. Just yesterday Oliver Woods came storming into the castle with a bloody nose. Apparently a stray bludger." The pointed look that he was flashing was enough description for Clara.

It had been fairly easy to avoid Keela and the Vansteens - even the Weasleys who seemed to pop up all over the school. After all, Clara only had three classes on off days with them since she had been enrolled in higher-level classes otherwise. And of those classes, Herbology was the only one where they were grouped up. All she had had to do was stick rather close to Kenneth Towler. Sure, he hadn't stopped jabbering on but he also hadn't once brought up the boggart - which was all that anyone had wanted to talk to her about for the past three weeks.

"We've talked," the French witch edged, shifting uncomfortably as Professor Lupin's brows raised to nearly touching his hairline. "We have!"

They had not. Aside from the brief exclamations of relief and pity that had occurred upon Clara waking up in the school's infirmary after apparently fainting, she had skidded around corners to avoid them. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to even think about it.

"I haven't only brought you here to inquire about your friends, Miss Deschamp." A folder that was sitting in front of him fluttered open, landing on a rather unflattering picture of her. "You aren't doing well in my class," he said bluntly, making her wince. "You've shied away from every physical demand to use your wand in any in-class work and although your test scores are rather good your essays… are lacking."

Clara spluttered, alarm bells going off in her mind. All of her essays had been at least five pages long! She had gone into mammoth detail on the African erumpent, a creature that they had discussed briefly a week ago.

"You said in your last essay that-" He paused, clearing his throat as he shuffled around a stack of papers. " _The African erumpent is a docile creature that has great power - for certain - but is as soft as a kitten. It rarely - if ever - attacks and should be protected. Instead, they are hunted like common beasts of burden."_

He looked to Clara expectantly.

"What do you expect me to say, Professor?" Her cheeks had gone a riotous red, her curls frizzing to poof around her face like an angry cloud.

"Erumpents are classified as wizard killers," he said slowly.

"An unjust classification!" she seethed.

"They are not ' _soft as kittens'_ as you so elegantly put it."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I have been to the planes where some reside and I can assure you that they do not deserve to be labeled as killers. If an animal is poked and prodded, beaten and taunted enough that it lashes out then I would say that the one holding the whip is the killer."

"Their horns have a fluid that can cause anything it impales to explode," he said blandly.

Clara had, unfortunately, had this argument many times before. Mainly with her father and sometimes with his colleagues. All had ended with Clara saying something unreasonable and then being banished to her room for a month.

"How could I forget?" she sniped. "Every year they are hunted down for that very fluid and dismembered for nothing more than their horn. Disgusting."

"Your essays are always like this, Miss Deschamp," Professor Lupin sighed, sitting back in his seat.

"I don't particularly see why portraying animals how they truly are is a detriment."

"It is when you are trying to _analyze_ deadly creatures." Clara's eyes hardened at the term: _deadly_. Clara Deschamp was a firm believer that there were no deadly creatures. Just ones that were pushed to a point of no return. Something in her expression made Professor Lupin sigh. "Your essay grades are passing, Miss Deschamp. But your class participation scores are bringing you down to nearly failing. You must use your wand and… _Defend yourself_."

It was that concept right there that had made her shrink back into herself, the earlier rage flickering and dying. She wasn't particularly adept at… defending. At Beauxbaton, it was… Well, there was a softer way to go about defeating against enemies.

"I…" She struggled for a moment, before meeting his gaze almost desperately. "I've been doing the assignments."

"Pulling out your wand and standing there doesn't count, I'm afraid. You must cast some sort of spell against-"

"I don't want to harm creatures that are just reacting to being captured."

Professor Lupin stared at her for a moment before giving a deep sigh, pinching his eyes shut before rising from his seat.

"You're smart, Miss Deschamp. If you keep refusing to protect yourself, however, I'm afraid that you will fail this class." Clara took a deep, shuddering breath, wanting to say more but unable to find the words. Instead, she stiffly got to her feet, bowing her head slightly before she quickly left.

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise. Clara had known from the beginning that this would be her least impressive class. If it wasn't already apparent enough, Professor Lupin's constant stare was reminder enough. The feeling had seemed to transcend to all of the teachers. Just the other day Professor Sprout had sniffed as she tried to manhandle a bubotuber while Kenneth squeezed out a copious amount of yellow-green pus.

A gust of icy air blew the french girl's hair into her eyes, making her give a returning sneeze and then hurriedly dig around in her satchel for her yellow and black scarf. It had been left, warm and dry by her bedside every morning.

Snow fell in swooping gusts down around Hogwarts, blanketing the school and threatening to knock any student that was passing outside right over. At the moment, there weren't very many people around at all. Most had gone back to their common areas or were now tucked away in their rooms, doing homework or maybe talking to their roommates. Professor Lupin had told her to meet him directly after her classes had ended which was a bit of a relief for Clara since she was still trying rather hard to avoid everyone.

Clara stopped, staring down at the school ground from a window that was situated at the perfect view to catch the whomping willow, all bogged down with feathery white snow and silent. The sun was starting to set, causing the lights in the school to flicker to life - although candles always seemed to be alight somewhere or other in the school. Nothing like Beauxbaton with its natural light and eery, almost otherworldly white glow.

The truth was that even Clara didn't completely understand why she was being such an utter coward. Maybe, she thought, it was some deep-seated fear that was just awoken inside of her. People had looked at her like that before. When Annabelle first got sick they had gathered around her some days and spoken to her as if they offered their sympathy then maybe - _maybe_ \- Those days had been long and hard.

At first, she had believed them. When they had told her that Annabelle would get better, that they would find a doctor to help, that everything would be _just fine_ \- She had made herself believe. Admitting that nothing would be better and no one could help would be so much worse than just playing along. It would mean that she would have to accept full responsibility. And she hadn't been willing to - not at first. Not when there may have been some other option.

Seeing them - all of the stares and the whispers - it had brought her back to a place that she had thought she left behind. It ate away at her in a way that she didn't think it would.

"Coward," she whispered softly, her breath fogging the glass for a moment.

"They say he's making his way to France, what I've heard." A boy with a patch of well-kept blonde hair walked past me, his bag nearly colliding with my own. From his robes, he was a Ravenclaw, probably making his way back from the library by the roll of parchment and ink that was smeared through his hand.

"Ah, that's utter tripe," snipped a petite Ravenclaw with severe frown lines marring her face. "Everyone always expects escapees to go to another country. He's probably in some muggle town, living like a pauper. That would be the smart thing to do."

Clara kept her eyes on the window, the amber glow reflecting eerily back at her in the glass. But her ears peeked, an odd sort of tightness making it hard to breathe. An odd rushing filled her ears as they continued down the hall. Since Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban there had been barely a day that went by that wasn't filled with these sorts of rumors.

"Do yah think that he's gonna go back for Lestrange?" Clara's heart seized at the name, her stomach rolling.

The Lestranges came from a line of pureblood French witches and wizards. Clara shut her eyes tightly. Although distantly, the Deschamps were related to that line. Through blood, this made her a distant cousin to Sirius Black himself. Dizzily, she clutched at the window sill. Her father had told her to never mention this - never speak it to another wizard. The Lestranges, like many other pureblood families, liked to keep within the magical ties. It was no different for the Deschamps.

Although distant, her family had kept very close ties with the Lestranges. Even her father's brother - Clara shivered, turning quickly from the window and rushing to the Hufflepuff common area. Bellatrix Lestrange had only married into the family out of convenience. She was just an in-law - But Rodolphus was still alive - still sending constant letters to her family. And Rabastan, his brother was alive as well. All three were tied together in some miserable little web with Rodolphus and Bellatrix tied together in marriage and Rabastan slithering along with them.

If Sirius Black had escaped than that meant that he might be seeking shelter somewhere. If he found out that her family was in England…

"DESCHAMP!" Two shocks of red hair battle the candlelight, turning shades of gold and red. George and Fred - Clara winces, pulling up short, her books clenched tightly to her chest. It's a straight hallway. If she was a bit more shameless perhaps she'd be able to bring herself to dash down it - in plain sight. A bigger part of her nudges back against the instinct though - something akin to shame.

Trudging along, dirt and sweat making their hair fly in odd directions, they looked more worn than Clara had seen them. Although, as George got closer she suddenly made out the brooding tilt to his brows and the darkness that had turned his whiskey eyes into burning embers. She had been ignoring them for the past few weeks - why? Because she was embarrassed. Because she was scared?

"Have you-"

"I've been ignoring you!" The words burst from her lips so quickly that she jumped, blinking in surprise before barreling on recklessly. George's eyes widened slightly - she was only staring at him. Why was she only staring at him? "I was embarrassed and - and ashamed and I didn't want to have to - to tell you all the awful things - why the boggart-"

Desperately she tried to find the words - something to explain what had happened after that first class. But she still couldn't explain her fear - how the boggart had torn open a part of her and bared it to a class of strangers. How she just wanted to hide from it all. But she couldn't talk about it yet. She couldn't reveal how awful and twisted she was.

So instead she stood there, staring pathetically up at the twins, her fingernails digging at the edges of her books.

"Do you want to watch a practice?" Shock made Clara take a step back, finally tearing her gaze from George to blink up at Fred.

"Practice?" Honestly, she was a bit unsure if she had heard him right.

A sheepish grin lit his face, an odd sort of twinkle flecking in his eyes. Beside him, George sighed, some of that anger dissolving with it.

"We've started Quidditch practice - first game is nearly here." Fred winked conspiratorially, seeming to be oblivious to her utter confusion. "Next one is in a couple of days. Figured since we didn't get the life sucked out of us by that nasty dementor that you might be our lucky charm. You'll come won't you?"

Clara didn't know what to say. She didn't even fully know if they had been mad at her or…? No, she didn't know anything when it came to the Weasley twins, it seemed. George still hadn't said a word, his brows furrowed as he rubbed a hand over his neck.

Dumbly, she nodded, not trusting herself to speak coherently.

"Good." With a smirk, he passed by, leaving George and Clara alone in the long expanse of the hallway.

Seconds ticked by as the silence grew more and more unbearable.

"I'm so sorry, George," Clara finally whispered, unable to take it one more second. His eyes flicked to meet hers, the softness there taking her breath away for an instant.

"You're too soft, Clara," he murmured, his amber eyes keeping hers. Slowly, he moved to stand just in front of her, his lean figure towering over hers. "You don't need to hide from me. My brother and I are your friends."

Blinking up at him, standing close to him like this made her head seem… fuzzy. Like she had caught a fever. Georges' eyes seemed to burn in the candlelight, his hair falling this way and that.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, dumbly. What else could she say? "I wish I could explain-"

"If we're your friends then you don't need to," he cut her off, looking somehow sad at her statement. Quietly, he continued, "You don't need to explain anything to me, Clara."

Hesitantly, Clara opened her mouth. Then closed it again. There wasn't anything that she could think to say.

Slowly, a smirk curled his lips. "See you at practice, Clara love. Wear something red."

He left her standing there, still blinking up at where he had been.

* * *

_I still haven't gotten any kudos' or reviews. Not that I'm paying attention. Or even care. Or anything. *goes over to a corner and bawls*_

_Anyway, if you like this story please, please, please show me with a kudos or comment or BOTH! You would make me so happy._


	8. Cousin Delphine

Whether it was by policy or a simple, unsettlingly good nature, all of the Hufflepuffs who had been ignored by Clara in the last week accepted her groveling with astounding merriment. Even her classes were filled with a steady sort of pleasantry - all moving along smoothly enough to make her feel a deep sort of uneasiness that only comes from years of turmoil suddenly interrupted with everyday steadiness. Even Defense Against the Dark Arts was moving along. Sure it was a gravely, stilted crawl to the finish line but aside from the occasional unwanted attention of Towler and Professor Lupin, Towler carried most of the weight in their group.

Everyone seemed to take her lapse in social etiquette as a fluke - something that should be ignored.

Well… all except one.

"Nope. Nope. Nope nope nope." Keela was in a tizzy, her eyes snapping like grass on the edge of a particularly windy hill. As a rule, Keela didn't take many friends. Normally, she found them to be too much upkeep - like buying dogs and realizing you needed to get all this extra shit and waking up to find that they pissed on your favorite pillow. She kept her circle tight and consistent with a very firm line of honesty.

Clara shrunk under the obvious rage, feeling all eyes turn to her as many of the surrounding Hufflepuffs grew quiet. It had been a rather loud, affectionate morning up until this moment with many people offering her soft smiles and some offering her food like they were the ones trying to soothe the tension that she had created. In a way, Clara felt like this was needed karma. Her mother believed strongly in the concept and it was part of the reason that the young witch had become the woman that she was.

A slender finger wagged in her face, drawing her back to the present. "You think just because you're pretty you can go around ignoring whoever you want!"

Clara's heart shrunk at the accusation, her shoulders going up. Clara didn't particularly think that she was pretty at all. In fact, she thought that her features were so outlandish that any boys would be scared off. Once, when she was little, she had made a boy cry by jumping from behind a bush. It had been a joke, of course, and she had meant to scare him but she hadn't been wearing any mask and he had screamed like she was murdering him.

The boy's mother later told her mother that Clara had "unsettling" eyes.

"Now, Keela," Molly jumped in, looking uneasy. "I think you're being a little too hard on her-"

"Just because you got all mopey from her dodging you-" Archie jumped in, his jaw setting like he was seeing something that he didn't particularly like. Keela gasped, reeling to stare at the curly-haired boy.

Across the table, Callum straightened from his book, brows furrowed in confusion. "You were dodging us?"

Everyone turned slowly towards him, even some of the nearby Hufflepuffs who were digging in rather energetically to their breakfast.

Behind his glasses, Callum squinted.

"Are you serious?" Keela said blandly. "She's been avoiding us for like the past week. Where did you think she was?"

For a moment, there was a long, awkward pause in which Callum's eyes grew smaller and smaller behind the frames of his glasses. "I… don't really know…"

"Dude…" a boy who had chiseled features and striking grey eyes said almost sympathetically to Callum. His eyes flicked briefly to Clara's, a crooked smile crossing his lips.

"Hey, Cedric," Molly said, her voice dreamy and her eyes far away as she stared across the table at him. Clara blinked, breaking eye contact. There was something particularly charming about Cedric Diggory that she couldn't particularly pinpoint. Maybe it was the way that he held himself - like he was trying to compact into the space that he was in. Like he didn't want to be bigger than what he needed to be.

"Um, hello?" Keela snapped her fingers to draw Molly back to the conversation. Those mismatched eyes snapped back to Clara in an instant. "I refuse to let you play with my heart like this, Deschamp."

"I'll do anything to make it up to you," Clara whispered, her hands working at each other in her lap. Her face felt pinched like someone was squeezing at her skin. "I'm really sorry. I know that I was in the wrong-"

"You don't have to-" Archie started, shaking his head.

"Oh honey, we're not mad-" Molly's hand reached across Keela to squeeze Clara's.

"Steal mermaid tears." Something like an alarm started to sound in Clara's head, heat rising to burn the nape of her neck.

"Keela, that is an awful, terrible thing," Molly gasped, looking positively scandalized.

"And also illegal," Archie clarified.

"All of you Hufflepuffs-" Keela started to growl but Callum piped in.

"Snape will take away all of our points if he finds out that one of us stole from his collection." His eyes met Clara's over his glasses. "Not that I don't believe in your incredible powers of stealth."

Clara didn't particularly know whether to be offended or to thank him for possibly getting out of that sticky situation. She still somehow found herself saying: "I'm incredibly stealthy."

Nobody seemed to want to deem that with a response except for Cedric who smirked but turned quickly to his other friends and started up a conversation heavily focused on next weeks quidditch practice.

"Fine," Keela huffed, throwing up her hands. "Coutures tie, I'll take that instead."

Clara's heart plummeted at the request, her eyes immediately traveling to the Slytherin table where a gaggle of girls sat. Most were lanky and had a cruel twist to their lips that offset the otherwise striking beauty of their high cheekbones and soft features. They reminded Clara of a group of ballet dancers that had always swarmed together like a cluster of knots on one rope.

In their midst, wasn't one of the most beautiful in the group but a girl with such an air of malice that she had quickly caught the crown. Delphine Couture was not only tremble-worthy but also a distant relative to the Deschamps. The bad side.

"Still stealing," Molly snipped, her lips tipping down for the first time that Clara had ever witnessed. "You don't have to do this at all, Clara. This is absolutely ridiculous."

"She already said she was sorry, Keela," Archie snapped, his brows furrowed. "Isn't that enough?"

"Oh, fine!" Keela snarled, throwing her hands up and then quickly moving into a more sulky position. "I wasn't actually going to make her do it-"

"I will." Even Clara was surprised to hear the words, so clearly coming from her lips. She blinked. Everyone else blinked. "I'll get her tie."

Something in the pit of her stomach rolled. Clara Deschamp believed in karma just like her mother. And if getting a tie from one of her distant cousins that father had told her to never associate with meant that she was repaying her debts then so be it… But then again wouldn't stealing make more debts? Her head spun briefly. She would steal the tie and then quickly steal it back to discreetly sneak back into Delphine's bags.

"What?" Archie gasped.

"You can't be serious-" Keela's eyes were wide as she stared at Clara, feeling something akin to deep panic. She hadn't actually thought-

"Clara, that's stealing!" Molly watched in horror as Clara closed her books, stuffing them back into her bag, her eyes intent on the group of Slytherin girls that had gotten up to leave the hall.

A sort of deep horror had set in, leaving all of Clara's friend firmly rooted to their seats as they watched her scamper off, her yellow and black scarf whipping furiously behind her. She was the most suspicious-looking figure that any of them had ever seen, her head whipping this way and that as she tried to keep her eyes on Delphine Couture even as more and more students pushed ahead of her.

"Oh no," Keela breathed.

Cedric leaned closer to Callum from across the table. "You think we could get any house points from that?"

* * *

Clara's hands fumbled with the letter, ripping at the milky blue corners and the shimmering purple of the lavender wax seal. All around her the quiet scribbling and turning of pages pressed down on her. There was something particularly unsettling about the library at Hogwarts. The small witch yelped as a book smashed into her nose, making her eyes water and a particularly waspish third-year hiss for silence as she passed by.

Floating books seemed to be boarish and completely unnecessary but then again the high bookcases that towered over her seemed unnecessary as well. Really, how was anyone supposed to reach those?

Beside her, George fluttered from one side of the aisle to the other, crashing into one floating book after another.

"Sssshhhh," Clara hissed, peeking around one of the cases. Good. No one was paying attention to the little corner dedicated to history this evening. A miracle since almost every Ravenclaw in the school religiously stayed down here.

Technically, there weren't supposed to be any birds in the library, period but when Clara had seen him peckishly tapping at the window, she hadn't been able to resist. Now, watching him puff up his feathers as another book came barreling into him, she was seriously regretting that decision.

_Dearest Clara,_

_Attached is your field trip slip, signed and some money. Your sister would like some sweets from that Honeydukes place if you would._

_Remember to write!_

_Your loving mother and father._

Frowning, Clara flipped it over, finding another slip of paper from her sister along with the promised slip and a silk, lavender scented bag filled with fat galleons. It was odd for her mother to send her less than two pages in one sitting.

_Clara,_

_Send home some of your assignments, if you would. It's an absolute bore in these hospitals and mother insists that I do exactly what the doctors say. And apparently what they say is that I am to stay in my bed._

_Ah, but what's new?_

_Father and mother have been whispering into the dead of night. They barely sleep and father has been spending more and more hours at this English ministry. The dementors are apparently a hard group to reign in and the public is pressing harder and harder upon father's department for answers on Sirius Black._

_I don't particularly believe that our distant relations to him are making it any easier either - nor our subsequent timing in moving to England. I daresay that you might have a bit of trouble if Sirius isn't captured soon enough._

_A word to the wise, keep away from our relatives and that Potter boy. Hanging around either might give the wrong impression._

_Annabelle._

Sweat trickled down Clara's neck, as she read over that last paragraph once more. And then again. Yes. It did look bad. Being one of under a hundred pureblood families, the chances of being found to have the same blood as the Blacks and LeStranges was a risk that was growing more and more. The timing on the Deschamps move to England would look a bit suspicious but the fact that Clara was going to the same school as Potter… She shuddered, trying to press that thought down.

Worse was her sister's growing condition. It didn't bode well that they had confined her to her room. Quickly, Clara tucked the change purse into her pocket along with the signed slips into the village before snatching a blank sheet of paper from a vacant table and diving back into the stacks of books with her quill.

_Mother,_

_Annabelle tells me you have her under house arrest. Please stop listening to these silly doctors and let her get some of these famous fish and chips that I keep hearing about. One or two hours out of that dreary little house won't break her._

_Your daughter._

She had always signed letters like this when she was angry. In a way, it eased some of the fury inside of her.

Cooing softly to George, she tied the rolled letter to his foot and nudged him onto a nearby window ledge before opening it. He cocked his head at her, his eyes narrowing for a moment before he gave an indifferent hoot.

"What do you want, you daft, little thing?" she hissed, glancing around anxiously to check that no one had wandered by. Her knuckle nudged a bit at his rump, only getting a sharp peck in return that made her yelp.

Sucking at the bloody wound, she glared down at the owl. _What a mean, nasty bird,_ she seethed.

"Oh take it, you vulture," she finally hissed, taking a bit of leftover cookie from her pocket and shoving it at him. They were the last of what her mother had sent her and she would have been lying to herself if seeing them pecked up by George didn't make her a bit jealous.

"Last year I would have said that Malfoy looked too much like a little weasel to be attractive but I do have to say that he's getting this-"

"Solemn?" Clara jerked behind one of the endcaps of the library, her heart hammering as she heard the familiar click of her cousin's boots on the tiled floor.

"Angsty." There was a degree of satisfaction said in that one word that confused Clara. Briefly, she second-guessed if the word meant the same thing that she thought it did. No. Her English was right. Leave it to her cousin to find that trait endearing.

The real reason that she had come to this section of the library was situating itself in a small alcove just to the right of where she was currently hiding. From a few days of snooping, Clara had found that Delphine liked to sneak away to this little area of the library which frankly was no wonder. While most of the rest were crowded, overflowing with random books and clusters of worn oak chairs strewn with ink and parchment, this was… marvelous.

It was curtained off for most of the day but at night the thick velvet was tugged back and tied off to reveal a low table glistening with a steaming kettle and a variety of teacups. The settees and chairs were all fashioned in a deep red that glistened in the low lamplight and seemed to accommodate the mood of its visitors, blazing brighter or lower depending on the temperament.

At the moment, the lights were barely high enough to illuminate much besides the placid indifference on each girl's face as they settled into their respective seats. A sign by the curtains exclaimed: _No books permitted!_

"Do you think-?" a curvy girl with an eyebrow piercing named Cynthia started, digging into a three-tiered variety of pastries. The deep green of her house robes made her complexion look almost sickly in the darkening glow of the lamps.

"Would I go out with him?" Delphine huffed, daintily picking up a steaming mug of tea and sipping at it. "Lord, no. The only one that I would think about-"

"Sirius?" A girl wearing a thin smile with a dark complexion questioned, folding her robes around herself. Clara thought for a moment. _Elsie_ , she thought, pulling the name from the back of her mind. Something about Elsie's eyes made Clara think that the question was meant to cut. Deep anxiety coursed through the witch as she tried to pat down her fluff of curls so that they wouldn't standing out like a white flag from her vantage point behind the bookcases.

The art of keeping a purebloods line had become less and less popular over the last decade or so. This practice had mainly consisted of inbreeding and had resulted in the extinction of a good number of family extinctions. The Deschamps still strongly agreed with the practice and in that way, it was very likely that Delphine and Sirius were a likely match given how tight their family ties lay. And startling enough there was only a 20-year gap between the two.

Some would say that they had good odds as a couple.

"No." The sharpness of the comment snapped Clara's attention back to the present. And her mission. Her tawny eyes narrowed on the loosened tie at her cousin's throat. "From what I hear, Sirius is soft as my aunt Willa."

 _Willa? That was her mother's name!_ A growl slipped from her lips as she lunged forward, anger bursting through her. _How dare-?_

"Who are we spying on?" Clara was barely able to stifle a scream as she whirled, heart beating its way out of her chest.

"George!" she hissed, relief and irritation making her lash out to give him a whack on the arm. "You scared me! Don't sneak up me like that!"

"And here I thought that you would be overjoyed at my arrival," the redhead griped, rubbing at the place where Clara had walloped him. His tie hung loosely at his neck, a few buttons undone and the ginger, gold strands of his hair disheveled as if he had been tugging it. In the back of Clara's mind, a vague sort of fluttering tickled her, making her heart beat a bit faster. He looked handsome like this.

George's eyes crinkled as he leaned around her and that fluttering intensified at the closeness, taking a quick peek at the alcove before drawing back behind the safety of the bookcases with a mischievous smile.

"Clara love, are you getting yourself into some trouble?" he teased, leaning a hand on a shelf near her head so that he could draw closer still.

"What?" she breathed, confused for a moment before she was shaking her head. "No!"

"Oh so spying on some nasty Slytherins is of a purely innocent nature?" he quipped, his eyes twinkling as Clara's cheeks flared with heat.

"I-" Words and excuses clogged in her throat. She could just tell him that she was trying to steal that stupid tie. But - well, that did seem like trouble. And she couldn't bear for him to be right with that smug little smirk on his lips. Desperately, she tried to shift gears. "What are you even doing here? How'd you know where I was?"

"Ah, I hate to disappoint you, lovely," he drawled, taking another quick peek at the alcove before returning to smirk down at her. "But I don't usually stalk you through the halls." George's eyes twinkled as he continued. "I heard a little birdy crashing into the windows outside and recognized him as yours and since I didn't particularly want to finish my transfiguration paper…" He shrugged.

"You did stalk me," Clara sniffed, trying not to let how nervous she felt seep into her voice. She was really hoping that Delphine didn't have good hearing and that her little chat ran over an hour.

"While you were stalking some poor Slytherins," he clarified. "Apparently we're both in the wrong."

"Apparently," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest indignantly. George's eyes followed the action before he met hers again, one brow quirking in question. _No_ , her mind battled back. She didn't want to admit that she was doing anything wrong. But the Weasleys were supposed to be troublemakers maybe George could… _No_! She refused to give him the satisfaction.

"Ah, come on, Clara," he whined softly, flicking her nose. "I'm bored!"

She gave in way too quickly.

"Oh fine," she sighed. "But you have to promise to tell no one!"

George looked vaguely offended by the notion. "I'm a Weasley." At Clara's hard gaze, he sighed. "I solemnly swear."

Grabbing his tie, she tugged him over so that they could see the alcove. The girls were still talking, although all of them somehow looked infinitely bored with each other.

"You see that girl with the…" Clara searched for a way to describe her cousin. High cheekbones? They all looked eerily alike. For a moment she felt the truth tickling at her tongue. _She's my cousin_ , Clara wanted to say. Her eyes flicked nervously to George like he might be able to tell her thoughts. She couldn't tell him. Delphine was probably all too open about the fact that she was related to the Blacks. Clara's family couldn't risk the association. George's brows quirked. "The mean-looking one with the curls." _A family trait_ , she thought miserably.

"Ah!" He crowed so loudly that Clara yanked him back behind the bookcase with a hiss. "Delphine Couture. Nasty lot - incredibly gossipy and always looking for those pesky purebloods for potential mates." His smile was teasing as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "What's gotten you mixed up with that lot?"

"I - I need to steal her tie," Clara admitted, feeling ashamed at the admission. Her eyes flicked to the ground.

"I didn't take you for the klepto type," he murmured, winking. "Hot."

"I don't have a fever," Clara sniped, pushing aside the confusion at George's sudden interest at her temperature. "I - It's for a bet. A bet I need to win."

George's eyes narrowed for a moment as she stared up at him. She didn't entirely know what telling him all of this would mean but if anyone could help her it was one of the Weasley twins.

"It's a good thing that you found me, Deschamp-" he sighed, rolling up his sleeves and combing back his hair. "You would have been absolutely bloody lost." Clara spluttered at that, feeling vaguely offended.

"I'm-"

"Soft," George finished for her, ruffling her hair and then cracking his neck. His expression had slowly gone from one of teasing to determination, the golden depths of his eyes intent on the corner of the bookcase that they had been peeking around.

"I'm not soft!" Clara fumed, her hands clenching at her sides as she glared up at the big, redheaded imbecile. His eyes twinkled with barely restrained laughter.

"Oh, love," he murmured. "Hufflepuffs are the definition of soft. In fact, I think most of them would pronounce the word as swoft. As in, pweady pwease, mistah Weasley. I'm too swoft to snatch the angwy Slytherins tie."

"You arrogant-" He was already striding around the corner, leaving Clara to boil on her own.

Around the corner, she heard a flutter of robes and then the sharp intake of breaths before George's voice boomed. "Couture! If I knew that you would be in the library than I would have come here more often."

My ears burned with reflexive embarrassment even as I yanked down my hair to peer around the corner. She was sitting straighter, her eyes catlike in their intensity as George slouched forward, an easy smile on his lips.

"George…" The way Delphine said his name was the way that Clara used to say broccoli when she was little. But… she liked it. Clara blinked, startled and a little…? She couldn't pin that emotion down, the one withering in the pit of her stomach. How did they know each other? Why was her cousin smirking up at George like that? And why was George smirking at _Delphine_ like that? A swirl of unfamiliar emotions rocked her gut. "If I had known that you Weasleys would be anywhere near a book, I would have surely stayed away."

George clasped his heart in mock agony, groaning. "Couture, how you wound me. And here I just wanted a friendly chat - you know the ones where both parties are happy afterward?"

The other girls around Delphine and George tittered, their eyes intent on the exchange. Like a pack of animals waiting for the first sign of blood. Only Elsie seemed to be a bit bored with the whole exchange, taking out a nail file to work at her pinkie.

"I assure you that I've been happy right up to the point where I saw that shock of red hair-" Delphine started, her lips giving away how much she was enjoying the banter.

"My best feature, I've been told." George's smile was lazy, his eyes winking wickedly in the lamplight. "Well, that and other things…"

"Oh barf," Clara heard Elsie grumble. By the way that no one else turned in her direction, Clara assumed she was the only one who had heard her.

Honestly, Clara agreed with Elsie more than she wanted to admit at the moment. The things that were coming out of George's mouth bordered on the kind of horror that she only saw on the muggle shows that her mother had become addicted to after moving to England. But clearly, Delphine was eating it up.

"Hm, interesting," she whispered, her eyes moving so slowly over George that Clara felt an uncomfortable itch start along her body in response.

Then George was leaning to whisper into Delphine's ear and Clara couldn't hear a damn thing anymore. By the soft giggle that escaped from her cousin's lips and the increasingly alarming shade of red that creeping up her neck, she guessed it wasn't exactly g-rated.

Whatever he said, by the time that George pulled back, Delphine was tugging off her tie and dropping it into his outstretched palm looking like an incredibly satisfied cat. As he loped away, her eyes stayed intently on his back. It was only until he was almost upon her that she finally yanked herself away from the slowly dawning nightmare that was in front of her. Silently, she chastised herself. That was stupid. She should have just stayed behind the bookcase.

"One Slytherin tie, as requested." Blindly, Clara held out her palm for it, her fingers curling around the silky material as she kept her eyes on the tile floor. Ugh. Why did she feel like throwing up all over the floor?

"Thanks," she bit out, feeling wretched for not feeling thankful at all. Gritting her teeth, she forced her gaze to meet his curious one. "I um owe you one."

"There has been something that Fred and I've wanted to ask you…" He wandered off, checking his watch before wincing. "Listen, Clara love I'll see you around. I really have to go finish that Transfiguration paper and Fred-"

"Yeah! Sure! I completely understand!" She had said that way too brightly. Clara winced, her fingers clenching around the tie. George hesitated, his brows furrowing.

"Are you sure?" His eyes scanned her face quickly. "You don't look too well."

"Just nervous." Clara tried to laugh it off, the sound more like the squawking of a distressed bird. "It's really late, George. You should get back to that paper." He still hesitated, his eyes narrowed on her. "McGonagall will butcher you if you don't turn it in."

That finally got to him. Rubbing his neck, he took a couple of steps back. "I'll see you around, Clara."

"Mmm." Clara's hand raised in a half-hearted wave but George was already gone, diving behind another bookcase to make his way to the other side of the library where his pen and bag lay open on a paper-strewn desk.

Something gnawed at Clara's insides as she finally took a good look at the tie that she had been obsessing over for the past couple of days. It was just an ordinary one issued by the school at the beginning of the year. Clara flipped it over and sighed. And of course, Delphine had taken the time and money to embroider her initials on the back.

Maybe it was that little monster tearing on her gut that made her lose track of time. Or the relief from having the source of her bet finally in her palms. Or maybe it was as simple as a momentary lapse in caution. Whatever it was, Clara didn't hear the giggles of the girls in the alcove behind her hiding space. She didn't hear the mentions of the fact that even if Delphine didn't want Malfoy or Sirius surely she wouldn't object to one of the twins. He _was_ a pureblood, after all.

She especially didn't hear them slowly collect their things and leave the alcove. In fact, the only thing she heard was the silence of her own mind up until-

"What do you have there?" Clara jerked, gasping as she whirled and knocking into the bookcase behind her in her alarm. Standing in a menacingly still group at the end of her aisle was…

"Delphine." Clara's eyes jerked to the scrap of green and white cloth that her cousin's eyes were currently glued to. Her heart battered at her ribs so violently that it was growing harder and harder to breathe. "I - I - this is-"

"My tie," Delphine finished with eery calm and the girls behind her hissed like a group of angry vipers ready to strike. Elsie was the only one that remained quiet, her face decidedly blank. "Honestly, cousin you could have asked for my clothing if you wanted to _stalk_ me."

"It's not-" Reflexive tears stung at Clara's eyes as she shrunk back. She had technically stolen it. This looked very, very bad.

" _This_ is your cousin?" Cynthia quipped and something about the way that she said it made Clara shrink back even more.

"Unfortunately," Delphine grumbled, a brow quirking as her lips thinned. "I always heard about the Deschamps - isn't your sister some kind of seer?"

"I - yes -" Why was she having such trouble getting out a sentence? She sounded absolutely pathetic.

"And your father's a renowned auror?" Delphine didn't wait for her response this time, her eyes narrowed. "Turned to office work after - well, that doesn't matter. And your mother… celebrated herbologist?"

"Um, yes?" Clara worked around her embarrassment, struggling to get her footing in this unsteady sea of questions. She felt like Delphine was setting her up for some terrible punchline with her as the main bag to punch.

"And then… there's _you…_ " The way that her cousin looked from her head to her toes and then back again, her lips curled down was more insulting than the giggles of her little lackeys. There it was. The punchline. "My mom told me that you weren't like the rest of the Deschamps but really… This is a new level." She gave a humorless laugh, crossing her arms. "You couldn't even get into Ravenclaw? At least then you would be smart but Hufflepuff…" Delphine clicked her tongue. "Well, I guess every family has to have one."

The words beat down on Clara, making her throat grow uncomfortably tight. Was it that apparent? How had Delphine found her weakness so easily and utterly decimated her? Clara's heart ached, her mouth chalky with all the things that she wanted to say - none of them as cutting as she wanted them to be. Her whole family was _so much_ and then-then there was her. Just her. Oh my god. She could feel tears starting to build at the back of her eyes. George was right. God, she was pathetic. She was so _soft_.

Delphine stalked toward her, her face so calm as she yanked the tie from Clara's grip. "Leftover."

Clara didn't move as she moved away, her little squad of girls following after her with venomous glances tossed over their shoulders. Only Elsie lingered, her eyes softening for a moment so brief that Clara almost missed it.

"Here," the lanky girl whispered, tugging off her own tie and dropping it at Clara's feet. "You seem like a nice enough girl. Just… steer clear of Delphine for a week or two and she might forget about you. I'm sure that she'll find bigger fish."

With that, the girl swished away, leaving the scent of jasmine in the air.

Was that supposed to comfort her? That she was just a tadpole in Delphine's pool? Instead, the thought enraged her. She was furious at Delphine for being as awful as her family had warned her about. She was furious that she couldn't tell a single person because if she did she would have to say too much about who her family was - how deep that tainted well was. And worse, she was furious at herself for being so weak - for being such a disappointment not only to her mother and father and sister who all were so strong but also to herself and the little girl that had gotten everything that should have been her sisters.


	9. O.W.L.

"You're an idiot," Keela snapped, staring down at the rumpled slytherin tie in her hands. Her mismatched eyes glistened as they snapped where Clara sat, curled by a fluffy, yellow rug in front of the roaring fire. "I love you."

The two sentiments at the same time seemed a bit odd to Clara but at the moment she was too cold to think more upon it. Winter had come to Hogwarts with a vengeance that startled the young, French witch. In the mountainside of France where Beauxbaton was nestled, winters had always been a bitter affair but the school was always a place warmed by magic. Here the halls of Hogwarts were open to the grounds and the winds were bitter and cutting.

At the moment, Clara's toes were growing numb from the cold. She desperately inched them towards the roaring fire in the common area. Across from the library area, the outdoors were blanketed off with thick curtains, letting a sweep of frigid air under the cloth.

"You're going to return it aren't you?" Molly asked nervously, her fingers working at each other, her books spread around her on the tile floor, a thick, fur blanket wrapped around her. Her brother sat just beside her, snoring against one of the comfy, plush couches that Keela sat upon with Callum engrossed in an astrology book just beside her.

"I don't know why you're so pleased," Clara murmured, her eyes turning to the flames as they licked along the logs in the hearth. "It's not even Delphine's tie."

"My mother always told me it's the thought that counts," Keela said offhandedly, tossing the tie onto a side table.

Clara rubbed at her temples, feeling mentally drained. She would still have to find a way to return the damn thing while deftly avoiding her cousin. The thought of her distant relative still floating along the halls made Clara's gut twist. Afraid was a big word for the emotions that were seeping through her at the moment. Maybe weary would be a better word? Whatever it was that she felt for Delphine the bottom line was that no good would come from being near her.

The weeks went by in a flurry of snow and papers. Winter seemed to be the time where all of the Hogwarts school work piled up and began to crush the majority of Hogwarts' students. Even George and Fred seemed to be buried in the avalanche, always bent together, whispering. George would always give Clara a wink and a soft hello but both of them were slowly slipping into the quicksand that was the Hogwarts curriculum.

Clara was starting to seriously regret accepting the advanced classes the more papers she got. Eventually she completely forgot about return Elsie's tie, the prospect of returning it drifting away with the looming of O.W.L. - a completely foreign concept to Clara.

There was an equivalent of this test in France but it was administered in the sixth year. And it was a little more… fluid.

" _J'en peux plus_!" Clara's hands grabbed futilely at her hair, burrowing in, tugging and then burrowing in once more to grab more hair. "I - I don't even understand - Good lord what is that?"

"French bread." The smile tugging at Molly's lips looked almost painful to Clara but the thing that was drawing her attention was the lump of baked dough being gently nudged toward her. Keela eyed her quietly while shoving a ridiculous combination of toast and beans into her mouth. Clara still didn't understand why exactly beans were being eaten for breakfast but…

"This...is a monstrosity," Clara stated dully. "Why is it so big?"

Molly's smile faltered, her eyes flicking swiftly to the bread then back again. "It… yeast?"

"At what point do you turn a temptress potion to a low burn?" Clara asked desperately, riffling through a book to her right filled with a variety of torn up notes. Across the table, Callum flipped a page on his latest muggle book titled You Before Me.

"When it curdles, turning a purplish - green," he answered, sounding slightly bored.

"I can't go to Hogsmeade," Clara hissed, her neck dampening with sweat as she eyed the thick astrology, arithmancy, and ancient runes books that sat to her left, each book barely even skimmed through. It was nearly halfway through the term and given that she had no clue what profession she wanted to go into getting the highest number of O.W.L.s possible was a last ditch effort for time.

"What?" Archie's brows nearly reached his hairline, his neck craning around his sister who was looking equally alarmed.

"That's-" Molly started.

"Crazy," Keela finished, looking partially disgusted by the idea. "You're going to skip Hogsmeade so that you can study?"

"I'm sorry, honey but that's-" Molly started again.

"Ridiculous," Archie finished for her. Molly's face reddened, her hand flying out to smack his arm.

"Stop interrupting me, butthead," she hissed as he rubbed his arm.

"It wasn't even me that interrupted you in the first place, trout face," he snarled back and they began to squabble in a quiet, intense huddle that escalated quickly to wrestling.

"This is why I study over the summer," Callum sighed, turning another page with such a superior air that Clara resisted a wave of violent aggression.

Keela sighed, looking at the flustered, now raging French witch and shaking her head. "You're nutty, Deschamp."

"There are more trips to this Hogsmeade, yes?" Clara started impatiently, rifling through the pockets of her robe until her hands met the purse of coins that had been sent to her.

"I take it you need to get a couple of souvenirs for that sister of yours?" Clara stilled for a moment, flustered at the mention of Annabelle. It was still odd knowing that others knew about her. Even odder was the thought that they knew more than even her family did. Sometimes she caught people staring at her as she went down the halls. Sometimes she heard them whispering behind her back.

"Honeydukes," she finally forced out, dropping the bag onto the table with a clink and then shoving her books back into her bag. "You can get whatever you like, as well. I'll be down for dinner! Thank you so much!"

"You know me," Keela sighed, eyeing the heavy lavender purse. "Heart of gold."

"And the voice of a siren," Archie threw in as Clara hurriedly got up, still sending venomous looks to his sister as she fumed from across the table.

"Oh stop it, you scoundrel." Keela's voice was the last thing she heard as she hurried away, dodging around groups of people and tripping over a variety of purses and bags crowding the aisle.

She was so busy trying to avoid inanimate objects that she failed to see the lanky barrier of muscle and red hair coming toward her until she was literally slamming into him.

"Oh no," Clara moaned, scrambling to pick up her notes while also untangling herself from the flailing of limbs that was slowly becoming unmanageable.

"You're rather clumsy, Clara." A pair of amber eyes twinkled down at her as she collected the last of her books from the ground and he tucked the stack of notes and quills neatly back into her bag, tugging her towards him in the process. His head tipped to the side as he leaned in closer. George's voice lowered to a soft whisper. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

For a moment, Clara was caught up in his eyes, the flickering depths dancing as he drew a little bit closer. He was… There was something about him that made Clara want to laugh and be still all at once. Like if the world stopped spinning, she would be fine with just keeping his company for a little bit.

"Oh stop with your flirting, George." Both brothers were grinning down at her now, Fred's arm slung across George's shoulders.

"Not flirting," George corrected with a grin, his hands slowly going to his pockets. "Just telling Clara love about all the fun she'll be having with us in Hogsmeade."

"I actually won't be going to Hogsmeade," Clara cut in, desperate to get that attentive stare off of George's face. It reminded her too much of the way that he had stared at Delphine. "I - I have to study."

"Is that what books are for?" Fred mused, his eyes landing on the bulging satchel slung around the tiny witch. "You hear that, Gerogie? We've been doing it all wrong this whole time."

"Imagine - the smartests buggers in this school getting something like that wrong. Everybody else is doomed," George drawled, his brows knit as if he were thinking something very complicated over. "What on earth are you studying for, Deschamp? All you need to do is aim for your dream job requirements and you'll be right as rain."

"See that would be easy if you actually knew what you wanted to be." A hollow laugh burst from Clara, something like panic making her hands itch and her mind run over all the notes that she had remembered from just this morning. "For those of us with less direction…"

She didn't know how to finish that sentence. Instead she decided to go on the defense. Hopefully it would make George and Fred stop looking at her in that sympathetic way.

"What's the plan for you two anyway? Hogwarts' next professors? Dragon tamers?" Her smile turned teasing as both twins shivered in mock disgust.

"Our brothers got that last bit covered," Fred grumbled.

"No, we're looking into something a bit more…" George wandered off, a mischievous grin curling his lips as he met his brother's gaze.

"Lucrative," they said together.

They gave no more explanation and for once Clara felt a little abandoned - like she was trying to decipher something that wasn't readily given. That feeling alone made her take a step back, clearing her throat.

"Well, um, unlike you two, some of us are a little less prepared," Clara finally sighed, looking down at her watch. "I really have to go. Um - but have fun at Hogsmeade."

Quickly, she skirted around the two, trying to make as fast an escape as possible but she was stopped by a large, warm hand grasping her bicep.

"Hey…"George's voice was soft as he drew closer, glancing around quickly before take a step closer. "If you need any help - well, I'm rubbish at most things but… I'm a right whiz at charms. I'll be able to pass that without a thought. And defense against the dark arts."

He didn't say it but Clara knew what he was thinking of. She had seen the small glances that he had sent her in class. She knew that he saw how uncomfortable she was in that class. Every time that she lowered her wand and let a red cap barrel toward her, she saw him, his mouth set in a hard line, his shoulders tense. The rest of the class had come to expect her inaction in every open demonstration or practice that they had had. But not George. Each one seemed to test his resolve.

"That's very sweet of you," Clara whispered back, her hand reaching up to touch across the lightly stubbled strength of his jaw before she could think. Why were his ears turning red? Slowly, she pulled her hand away, smiling. "Thank you, George."

As she rushed off, she heard Fred, his voice dreamy and high. "Thank you, George."

"Oh shut your trap." Clara stifled a giggle at the distinct sound of wrestling reached her ears as she rounded the bend.

That was the most human interaction that she would have for the rest of the day, it turned out. Her entire morning and evening was spent in a cocoon of books, papers spread about her like she was planning to nest in the library. Occasionally, she would get up, limping around the different sections in hogwarts until her butt didn't hurt so much and her back stopped aching. She even made a trip to the little painting in the wall, tickling the fruits until she was admitted and the house elves rained food and tea down upon her until she could barely stand.

But eventually she would have to limp back to her pile of papers.

By the time that the dinner bell rang, her eyes were blurry with fatigue and her mouth was cottoney for some reason. For the first time in her life, she wanted to go for a run. Or maybe just walk outside for a long, long while. Anything to get out of this room.

"Found her!" A happy voice chirped and a moment later a pair of wind chilled arms was wrapping around Clara, bringing with it the scent of winter air and pumpkin. Molly's wide eyes peeked at her from the side, her arms staying tight around Clara's neck. "Are you alright, Clara? You look a little peaky."

"It's time for dinner, nerd." Bag after bag of clothes, food, and books hit the table, sending some of Clara's papers fluttering to the ground. Keela's wild, red curls were in a puff that had small flutters of snow still melting in them. "You gave me too much money."

"Keela's family is already well off enough without giving her some of your money to spend as well," Molly chided, helping clean up the clutter of quills, ink, and notes.

"My head hurts," Clara whispered, rubbing at her temple desperately. "Can't I just go to sleep?"

"Oh, you old hag," Keela groused, throwing up her hands.

Both Hufflepuff girls eyed the disheveled mess that had been Clara Deschamp when they had left. Now however the girl in front of them had gone a grayish color beneath her usual sun-kissed hue. Her curls were sticking at odd directions, making her look closer to a frantic, old lady than a teenager. Her eyes had dissolved into a murky brown, the light behind them seeming to have sputtered out in the hours that they had been gone, dark circles making the change all the more apparent.

For a moment, Keela and Molly had a silent but fierce argument before turning slowly back to Clara.

"We'll help you get back to the dorms," Keela finally said, stuffing Clara's satchel full of as many books as possible before slinging it over her shoulder along with the other bags that she had gotten that evening. Molly went to work trying to cajole the withered mess of the French witch to stand.

"I didn't finish nearly as much as I wanted to," Clara finally whispered as they made their way deeper into the bowels of the castle. Most of the other students had already flooded the main hall for the Halloween feast so the halls were nearly empty. Her eyes flicked to the two girls nearly carrying her down the stairs at the moment. "What do you two want to be?"

"Reporter," Keela said automatically, not even glancing up. "Need a basis in charms and history and that's about it. I'm all set for the O.W.L.s. Dad'll be overjoyed at the choice. He'll finally have an excuse to travel all around."

"Archie and I don't really know yet," Molly mused, looking thoughtfully. "I've always been quite good with animals though. Maybe something along those lines."

"Not all jobs are gonna need you to be a star, Clara," Keela confided. "Sometimes it's okay to just be...average."

"Nobody wants to be average," Clara whispered dejectedly.

"Don't let all those famous blokes get you confused," Keela charged on. "It's us average people that make this world go round."

"Scare the world, Clara," Molly suddenly murmured, her eyes luminous in the flickering of the lamps as they neared the barrels that led to the hufflepuff common room. "Be exactly who you want to be and don't let all this nonsense about grades and who's the best determine what matters in your life."

"It's absolutely silly to let the world dictate how smart you are," Keela said with a nod, nudging Clara through the open barrel.

Clara's mind spun as she made her way down the long crawl space that would eventually open to the common area.

"We'll bring you back some food!" Molly's voice echoed off the mossy walls followed by the sound the lid closing once more.

By the time that Clara had crawled through and stumbled into the quiet lounge, her head was in absolute agony. It made going to her room all the more difficult. In the back of her mind, all of the facts and questions that she had gone over and over again beat painfully. But in the front, right near her ear, she heard Molly and Keela's voice. What did she want to be? She could still remember toddling along beside her mother, watching her work in her gardens. When she was little, it had all been so easy. But now…

Fear beat through her. Her years in school were numbered. Real life was beating at her door and it was getting louder and louder by the day.

Clara fell into a restless slumber, not even bothering to dive under the covers. Somehow all of her uncertainty seemed to follow her into her dreams, stalking her.

"Clara!" Why was her professor talking to her? She was supposed to be working on her test. Or was it her article? Wasn't she supposed to be reporting on the number of failures that disappointed themselves and their families after schooling?

"Clara, wake up!" Why was her editor talking to her like she was stupid? She didn't need to scream.

Lights blared to life all around her, jerking her violently away from all dreams.

"Finally," a huddle of dark shadows near her bed sighed, her voice tinted with anxiety and fear. The lamp that she was holding was too bright for Clara to see her face. "Get up and get dressed."

"Wha-" Clara muttered groggily, rubbing at her eyes. She blinked a few more times. "Keela?"

"Yes, you dolt," the redhead snarled, tossing a pair of slippers at Clara. "Now, move!"

"What's going on?" Even as she said the question, she was throwing on a robe.

Keela's mismatched eyes gleamed in the lamplight, shadows playing across the girls solemn face. "Sirius Black just broke into Hogwarts."


	10. The Legacy of Names

The halls were dark and quiet as Keela and Clara rushed through them, few torches lit in the silence of the night. Outside the chilled windows, Clara caught the dark shapeless wisps of shadows and robes.

"Dementors," Clara breathed, her legs pumping harder as the creeping dread and chill filled the halls of Hogwarts.

"They had to let them in," Keela panted, rounding a corner, her eyes narrowing at the dark hallway behind them. "They've been here since his escape but they were never allowed into the castle - Just for tonight. Dumbledore won't let them stay long - just enough time for them to search the grounds.

All too quickly, they reached one of the main corridors that opened to the courtyard. Clara's head spun, her breath coming fast and hard. Her father would already know about the break-in at Hogwarts. He would be sending word soon. Unwanted, her eyes moved to the sky, cloudless and vast. It reminded her…

"Clara-" Darkness eclipsed the moon, something like a rumble filling the back of her mind.

" _YOUR WAND, ALICIO!" Beside her, her mother gave a soft sob, her hands tightening on Clara until the point of pain. Just ahead, kneeling in their grove, her father's face had gone hard, his skin going an off white. Three men circled him, all wearing the familiar long coats of aurors, wands pointed rigidly at her father's kneeling form._

" _Bartimus, please-" A flash of white time cut through the evening darkness and Willa gave a short scream as Alicio's head snapped to the side. The trees and flowers around them shivered._

" _YOUR WAND!" There wasn't much discussion after that, Clara remembered. After they had kicked away Alicio's wand, the men had performed a quick shackling spell, the shortest one of the bunch quickly pulling out a roll of parchment._

" _For your families involvement with the Dark Lord-"_

" _We've served the ministry loyally!" my mother wailed, her hands claw-like as her body bent to shield me._

_His lip twitched. "You have been identified as a risk and therefore will be held in custody until the capture of He Who Must Not Be Named."_

" _Bartimus, please don't do this," Alicio whispered and for a moment regret and shame whipped across the auror's face._

" _The crimes against the Lestranges are too great," he breathed, his eyes misting over as he stared down at the man that he had called a hero just a month before. Alicio had saved his life in one of the first battles of the French ministry. He had sat at the same table just two months prior with his own wife and children and eaten dinner with the Deschamps._

" _I am a Deschamp," Alicio said and although his voice was low there was something like a snarl there as he stared up at the man who he thought was one of his closest friends. Hatred was there - such burning hatred that Alicio thought it might eat him alive._

" _Related to the Lestranges by blood and the Blacks by marriage." Was that enough to prosecute her family? Even now she didn't know. Maybe her blood was bad. It was enough for them to take her father away, strip him of his rights as an auror._

_Her mother held her and wept as they apparated, vanishing into mist and the night sky._

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" The ground was hard and unforgiving as Clara crashed to it, darkness looming above her. Distantly, as if her ears were full of cotton, she heard the yell of Keela matched with the deeper tone of a teacher.

Shrieking, the dementor that had crept into the halls of Hogwarts whipped away in a flurry of dark, tattered cloaks.

"Awful, nasty things," someone was saying, their voice shaking as Clara was hauled into the warm, soft bosom of Professor Sprout. "Look at what they've done to the poor girl."

"Get her to the hall," another voice snapped. "Quickly."

Not a fear but a memory. Clara quivered as the professors and Keela dragged her to the Great Hall, murmuring to each other over her head as she stared numbly down at the worn floors. Her father's trial and subsequent release had been a nightmare to her, something that her parents refused to speak of.

Deep within her, a hatred rumbled to life. Something that Clara had kept tightly shut. Her father's ragged words echoed in her ears, pleading like a beggar from his knees. All because of a name - such a simple thing.

And deeper than that was the thought - that mad, wild thought. Perhaps… perhaps they were right. Perhaps her blood was a little bad. Something had soured from all those years of inbreeding and dark magic.

"Drink this, darling." Clara's head whipped around as the portly form of Professor Sprout barreled towards her, shoving a steaming cup of cocoa into her hands.

They had led her into the Great Hall where all of the tables had been removed and a pile of sleeping bags had been stacked against the far wall. All of the houses had gathered, milling about in whispering packs while others trickled in - those unlucky enough to have gone to bed without supper.

"Sirius Black…" a Ravenclaw was hissing, her face weasely and pinched as she skittered past the corner that Clara was in. The name made her itch, crawling under her very skin. Blacks and Lestranges - it was too close a jump to her name. Clara looked away, blushing for some strange reason.

"Drink, drink, drink," Professor Sprout commanded, tapping at the cup that Clara was clutching with a stern glance. The silver-haired witch took a small sip, her smile forced.

"Are you alright?" Keela bit out when Professor Sprout was finally satisfied with the amount that Clara had drunk.

Clara didn't answer for a moment, catching the flickering waves of Fred and George's hair as they made their way through the sea of Gryffindors like torches through the dark. Across the hall, in their own little corner was the whole of Hufflepuff, a few already doing roll call and checking for any injuries. The liquid burned as it made its way down my throat.

"The professors at Beauxbaton told us about dementors," she finally rasped out, her skin blanched of all color, her eyes dull. "They force you to relive your worst memory - the lowest part of your entire life. They suck you down into the mud and they keep you there in the darkness with all of those horrid, _hideous_ emotions-"

Clara's voice broke, tears burning her eyes as Keela's face softened. Her father was the strongest man that she had known and to have seen him forced to his knees - Clara turned into Keela's arms, shaking. What had followed her father's arrest was silence. Her mother refused to speak about what had happened to him and so they had gone about their everyday lives in silence, a gaping hole swallowing up any of the joy that they had experienced before.

Just then Professor Dumbledore's voice boomed through the hall, his face tight beneath the white mass of his beard. "The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle." At each end of the hall, Professor McGonagall and Flitwick worked swiftly to close all doors. Professor Sprout had already made her way out of the area some time ago, her face uncharacteristically solemn. "I'm afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the Perfects to stand guard over the entrances to the Hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately."

Across the hall, the Hufflepuff Prefect had begun to take a detailed role call, the older students looking after the smaller ones while the other houses broke into excited murmuring. Bits and pieces of conversation reached the huddle of girls in their corners, the news of Sirius Black's arrival at Hogwarts, traveling quickly.

Dumbledore moved to exit before pausing. "Oh yes, you'll be needing…"

With a wave of his wand, the tables and benches in the main hall slammed into the walls, making the windows shudder with the force. All along the wall plush, purple sleeping bags appeared along with a mountain of pillows before Dumbledore hurried from the room with the other teachers following closely behind.

"EVERYONE GRAB A BAG AND SET UP CAMP!" One of the Ravenclaw prefects hollered, a look of supreme anxiety tightening her face and making the end of her sentence spike up another octave.

"Well, I guess that's that," Keela grumbled.

"I heard that Delphine is related to him." Clara stilled as the two Ravenclaws passed her, their heads bent as they shot suspicious glances to the small group that her cousin was huddled with. Her back was tense, her posture defensive as she stared around the hall in open contempt. "Do you think she could have let him in?"

Clara stiffened, her heart dropping. Keela's arms tightened around her shoulder as Delphine's head swiveled in their direction, her eyes narrowing on the two girls. Coutures like her more seedy relatives were the topic of rumors - certainly - however when faced with a pit of scared Hogwarts students whispering accusations, it becomes a lot less flattering.

"She had to have." A Gryffindor boy had loped over, his voice holding a silent disdain as he glared across the room at the rigid beauty.

"He had to have someone to let him on the ground," another Ravenclaw chirped.

Nearly half of the students assembled into the hall were now staring at the gaggle of Slytherins that had formed around Delphine.

Molly rushed over from her place across the hall, finally catching sight of the pair of Hufflepuff girls crammed up against the far corner of the hall.

"Just admit it!" someone across the hall suddenly burst and Clara flinched back like the words were hurled at her. Delphine's lips thinned for a moment before curling up defiantly. The girl had faced hatred often enough to know that those who were yelling it responded adversely to the idea of mockery.

"Stop that!" one of the prefects started feebly, drowned out by the roar of the crowd as they circled the Slytherin girl, dancing around her like animals waiting for a moment to attack.

"How'd you get him in?" another boy yelled and Clara felt something wild and raw beat to life inside of her.

Keela pulled her closer, her arms tightening around the French witch as she watched her skin blanch three shades lighter. "This isn't good."

"Where is he?" a girl yelled.

"Someone needs to stop this," Molly whispered nervously. Keela's arms around Clara were strong as she turned them deeper into the corner.

Across the hall, Clara caught sight of George and Fred, the latter pulling Angela behind him while the other searched frantically around the Great Hall for someone. A small bit away, Harry and Ron and Hermione were huddled into a little group with Neville and a few others that she didn't recognize. All looked like they were bracing against a storm.

"Where are the teachers?"

"Tell us-" another boy started.

"STOP IT!" Clara shrieked, a burst of wind making the windows shiver in their frames, a few at the back shattering with enough force to make the shards whip across the enclosed space. Screams filled the hall, all of the students shaking as another flurry of wind whipped through the broken glass. One of the house ghosts jolted before rushing out of the hall. Something wild and consuming beat inside the French witch, something that made her skin burn and her eyes go hazy.

"Merlin's beard," Keela breathed, her eyes going wide as she stared down at the shivering girl in her arms. There was a glow in her tawny eyes that belied the sickened pallor of her skin, something that made the red-head draw back in fear.

More screams echoed around the hall as another window burst, sending glass raining down like snowflakes and Clara felt that anger inside of her flare once more before slowly flickering and then dying. The hall dimmed, flickering. Magic was a fickle master and sometimes it took what it wanted to take.

"I think-" Clara swayed, Keela's arms catching her before she could fall flat on her face.


	11. Immediate Action

The first time that Clara Dechamps magic had gotten away from her was when she was six and her mother took a stolen cookie away from her. She had broken the teapot, sending steaming water sloshing all over the stove and her mother, screaming across the room. For one moment, there had been actual fear in her mother's eyes as they stared across the room at her red-faced daughter.

But that terror had quickly vanished when the silver-haired girl had burst into a slobbering, snotty wail, declaring that she had only wanted to _look_ at the cookie, not eat it, and _why was mama such a meanie_?

A fluke, Willa DeChamp decided on, picking her child up and scolding her lightly. That was all it could be for magic didn't just pop out of normal witches and wizards. It lash out into the world to harm at the mere thought. No - for that, a witch needed to be older. So, for now, the broken teapot was a fluke and her daughter was normal.

The second incident could be debated. For Clara, the next bursting of her magical dam came only a few months later at the birth of her baby sister. In the weeks and months after and the years to come, Clara would look back on it and find something wretched and twisted sitting in her place in her memories. In those weeks of wishing she could imagine herself becoming something grotesque, hideous enough to throw a curse on her own sister.

However, her parent's remembered her second incident as a tussle with a local farmers boy who had called her ugly at the age of seven. His hair had turned silvery, bouncing into a riot of curls and his eyes had seeped from a deep brown to a tawny, golden hue. They had found her only a moment or two later, pointing at the river nearby. _If you think I'm ugly, you should see what you look like now_ , she had declared defiantly, her eyes already growing murky with unshed tears.

 _Immediate action_ , Alicio had declared. An auror not only by trade but heart, he had seen the way that things in life spiraled. The tides had turned dark and muddy the days of late and he didn't want his child to be swept away - no matter the age.

So the Dechamps took immediate action. Alicio jumped into the history of wayward magic, trying to drill into the young witches head the error of rash emotions. Each lesson was a study in boredom. Clara wasn't a particularly attentive student, her eyes always flying to the window and her mind on a constant tumble to the next subject.

Willa taught her after school in potions and botany, emphasizing the slow, patient crawl of growing plants. This Clara took to with a sort of devotion. It became the new religion in their life. _Patience_ , Clara's mother repeated regularly, _was the cornerstone of all magic_. Or at least all magic with any substance to it. Clara didn't fully understand this. Power was power and patience was a slower man's way of handling emotions.

"Magic, my darling," Willa whispered to her one day as they cleaned a bundle of moth wings to out in a Nightmare tonic. "Is like having a cage of birds inside of you. They flutter and they caw and they scratch at those bars to get free. Some people just have a latch on the door that's a little faulty."

"Does that mean that I'm weak?" Clara breathed after a long pause, feeling something inside of her give a little bit. Her family wasn't weak. To be weak was to be useless, the black mark on her otherwise glowing relatives. It was a feeling that the small witch had had since the birth of her little sister.

"Weak-" Willa stuttered over the word, eyeing the snowy golden curls that were nearly spilling into the boiling cauldron of seafoam and fresh river's water. No. That word didn't seem right as she stared into her daughter's striking eyes. "No. No, darling. You didn't let me finish. Some people just have a broken latch that all of those wild, stir-crazy creatures can pick away at. And then there are others - others who have too many birds to fit inside of those metal bars."

So that was the nature of magic. Fickle and rash it could burst free at any moment. And either through a faulty latch or too many birds, Clara's magic swelled and burst from her with a fierceness that scared the people around her.

So Clara stuffed it down, keeping all those birds quiet. She learned alternatives to using her wand and spellbook. She learned control. Because she didn't want to scare anyone - and more than that, she didn't want to hurt anyone. She had already done enough of that.

* * *

A short, angry hoot was what woke Clara from a particularly wonderful dream about eating a tub full of some of her mother's famous lemon lavender cookies.

"Oh good, she's awake," a voice chirped from somewhere near her head. A dull thumping had started in her head, making the morning light streaming through the curtains above her bed painful.

"So she is," a deeper voice murmured with an amused lilt that made Clara think that he was smiling. She supposed pretending to pass out again would make her look more pathetic than she already was so she forced herself to her elbows, ignoring the grumble her muscles gave in protest. Professor Dumbledore's eyes shut as he gave a gentle smile, crows feet appearing at the corner of his eyes beneath the half-moons of his glasses. "Good morning, Miss Deschamp. I assume you've had a good night's rest?"

Something about that question made her uneasy. Particularly at the thought that it came after a night of blowing out the Great Halls windows. Deeply unsettled, Clara picked at the knit blankets of her cot. By the open bay and the matching beds rowed up beside and across from her, she assumed they had dragged her to the infirmary. The snowy-haired witch winced. Above her bed, resting on the windowsill, George gave a few hoots that sounded a lot like laughter. The dumb bird.

"Oh don't tease the poor girl, Albus," Professor Sprout reprimanded. The portly woman patted Clara's hand fondly, her eyes sparkling. "You're not in trouble, dearest."

Clara wasn't entirely sure she believed that. She had lost control like a child and endangered the whole of Hogwarts in the process. Shame made her stomach knot. "I apologize, headmaster. I thought -"

She had thought that her younger years had beaten down all of that wayward magic. Still… sometimes she could feel something inside of herself that beat every time she held her wand. Something that yearned to strike out and inflict… pain.

"Forgive me, Clara...but I took the liberty of taking a look at your wand…" It was then that she finally noticed the thin ivory wand that the headmaster was fingering slowly. His eyes were watchful as they ran over the stricken witch, her face going pale. "I merely ran across it when taking you to the infirmary… It is of quite an odd make."

"Oh?" The word sounded too strained, Clara's lips tight as her eyes flicked from the wand up to Dumbledore's face in quick, flighty sweeps.

"The handle is made of dumortierite," he started slowly, his long fingers toying with the deep blue that had been smoothed from years of use before moving farther up. "Wood made from beech tree, aged for 1,000 years… and finally a core of feng-huang feathers…" His eyes were troubled as they eyed Clara, the witches heart squeezing with anxiety.

She didn't know what to say. She wasn't sure if he wanted her to say anything at all. George hooted nervously, his feathers ruffling.

"Beech tree…" he started, setting the wand down with thinned lips on a stand just beside Clara's cot.

"Right sturdy piece of work that one," Professor Sprout piped up, her lips twitching with interest. "Very powerful in spells of patience."

"As is the dumortierite stone," Professor Dumbledore quirked. "While the feathers of the feng-huang are a bit of a different story. Some historians have referred to it as the Chinese version of the average phoenix however it's true power does not come from resurrections but rather-"

"Spells of control," Professor Sprout finished with a huff, frowning. Clara's skin crawled.

The distant sound of conversations drifted through the heavy doors of the infirmary as the three sat in silence, a tense sort of tug of war happening between them. Finally, Dumbledore broke the silence, his eyes darkening.

"A wand like this, Miss Deschamp," he shook his head, eyeing the offending object with obvious distrust. "It's not meant to aide but to _restrict_."

Clara flinched, a dull shock going through her system. Of course, she thought. Of course, she knew that her wand was meant to control her power instead of amplifying it. She knew this, she told herself. Her parents had never told her in so many words what her wand was meant to inhibit but she had always known. Her powers needed to be controlled. If anything, the night before showed that.

"I -" Clara fumbled for words, a million different answers piling up in her throat. "I'm not sure…"

"Dear girl, we're not trying to attack you," Professor Sprout soothed, reaching a hand out to stroke along Clara's. "We're simply trying to deduce why a witch has such a thing."

"One of these ingredients would be understandable in a wand," Dumbledore mused. "It would be used simply as a means to control the spell being cast - give it a bit more structure. But to have so many elements - it's as if you're trying to tie your magic down."

Worry marred Professor Sprout's face.

"I-" Clara closed her eyes tightly, slogging through her own embarrassment. The truth - it was best to tell the truth. George cooed, fluttering down to Clara's shoulder and perching there. The sharpness of his talons helped center her. "When I was younger, I couldn't control myself. I would - I would cast spells without even meaning to - without even knowing how I had done it. It got to be too much. Other people would have gotten hurt-" Clara winced, her sister's pale, tired face flashing across her vision. "People _did_ get hurt."

Professor Sprout made a tutting sound, her eyes furrowing.

"Hhhmm," Dumbledore mused, his brows crinkling for a moment. "Miss Deschamp, have you ever heard of what happens to a wizard that suppresses their magic?"

"Albus-" Professor Sprout had stiffened where she stood, her words sharp as she glared over at the graying wizard who merely gave a small smile in return.

Sharp eyes flicked to meet Clara's, waiting. George's talons dug further into the flesh of her shoulder, making her jerk. "I - I don't know."

"It becomes something twisted," he said softly, his gaze moving to just beyond the window. "Witches and wizards in communal settings is still a fairly new concept. Before all of this there were far more of us burrowed underground, hiding. Hiding from muggles." Clara flinched, something about the way his voice dropped made her skin crawl. "Any matter, when a wizard suppresses the magic inside of them instead of learning to wield it… Miss Deschamp, I don't believe that you want to dive into that sort of darkness."

"Not that we ever thought you would, dearie," Professor Sprout burst, her tightly sealed lips finally popping open as she began to bustle around my bed, straightening sheets and clucking at George until he gave a happy hoot. Her eyes snapped over to the bearded wizard, snapping. "Isn't that right, Professor Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore's striking eyes stayed on Clara for a long, disconcerting moment, his face lined with something that Clara couldn't quite pin down. Finally, Dumbledore blinked. "Oh goodness, no." His hands moved to the nearly forgotten wand. "Only a story to warn you of the danger of trying to restrain your magical abilities."

"You need to learn to harness them." Professor Sprout gave a girlish giggle as George nipped at her fingertips. "Oh, who's a pretty birdie."

"Precisely!" Professor Dumbledore cheered, grinning. "So henceforth, I'll be contacting your parents and discussing with them the possibility of getting a new wand. And in the meantime…"

The heavy oak doors of the infirmary gave a low groan as they opened.

"Headmaster, you requested my presence," an oily voice carried through the room, the doors admitting a thin man with sallow skin and a large, hooked nose. Greasy black hair hung to his shoulders.

"Severus," Dumbledore called with a jovial smile. Giving a curt nod, the headmaster turned that smile on Clara. "In the next few days, I'll be entrusting your education to Professor Snape. He will be instructing you on how to handle your rather unruly powers."

The glare that the ebony-haired man was shooting Clara said more than the headmaster ever would. Like that Severus Snape would rather shove Clara's head into a vat of boiling polyjuice potion.


	12. Friendly Friends

The howler arrived in Hogwarts just a day after the shattering of the Great Halls's windows and a few minutes after the dismissal of the last period. Twinkles, a small, peckish blueish-black owl with a penchant for cawing instead of hooting, had performed the harsh journey to the school in howling winds and downpour. Clara's mother didn't particularly believe in weather charms or even the scrying glasses that reported upon it, so it had come as quite a surprise when the skies opened up only a moment after Twinkles had left.

The owl in question had had a singular devotion towards Mrs. Deschamp but found that those feelings were quickly fading as he broke the magical barrier to the school ground, ducking below tree level to avoid any of the nasty dementors he had spotted roaming the distant outcroppings.

His wings worked a bit harder as he neared the glowing lights of the halls, gaining altitude as he worked towards a window that was cracked a bit farther open than the rest. All he had to do was find a young witch named Clara and his day would be done.

As for the witch currently being hunted down by a very agitated owl, she was exiting her last class of the day, hurrying down the halls towards the safety of the Great Hall. Very few people had confronted her about the events of the night before. In fact, although some seemed to eye her with a mixture of curiosity and fear, the majority had summed it up to the dementors that still stalked the gates of Hogwarts or the howling winds that were currently shaking the panes. Very few looked twice at the small, little witch and whether that was because of the timid slant of her lips or the fact that her house colors were yellow and black - well, that was simply by a case by case basis.

"Sessions with Snape," Keela whistled, looking mildly impressed after Clara had finished rushing through the story, skimming over her natural perchance for uncontrollable magical outbursts and mainly focusing on the details of her wand. "Well, that's unfortunate for you."

Clara's brows tipped together, the students around them all pushed to get to dinner. Molly and all the others would surely be at the table already.

"Will your mum and da really get you a new wand?" Keela's mismatched eyes glinted down at her as they rounded around another corner, the giant doors of the Great Hall coming into view. The mouthwatering aroma of roasted pumpkin seeds and honeyed ham wafting towards them. "It's a lot trickier to find the right wand when you're older than when you're younger. That could cost them a pretty penny."

It wasn't the money that Clara was particularly worried about. In fact, if anything, money didn't really play a factor in _any_ decision that the Deschamps made. Purebloods were rarely in financial distress simply because of the perception that they held stronger magic. Even years of social change couldn't completely wipe this perception from the mind of the following generations. Another factor came from the history of her father's family in the merchant industry; there was a great deal of wealth to fall back on. Even then, touching this money had never even crossed either of her parent's minds given their status in the career paths that they had taken. Even her sister received a substantial deposit of money for the few prophecies that she had given in the past.

No. The problem laid solely with the purpose that her former wand held. There had been a _reason_ that her parents had made it for her. And Clara wasn't entirely sure that the passing of time had buried their fears. Or her own for that matter.

"When do you start?" Keela asked.

Clara shuddered, mounting dread making her stomach tense. She had heard some rather… disturbing things about Professor Snape. One being that he preferred the method of open scolding and humiliation in the cultivation of young students. But Clara had been able to see some of the classes that he had taught in her rare free periods. Perhaps he was a bit harsh... but his recipes held an incite that didn't come from reading out of a book. Anyone that thought that they didn't get a great deal from his classes was a fool. "When I get my wand-"

"CLARA!" Molly bound towards them, the sunny bow in her curls bouncing. A grin split her face as she flung herself at both of the girls, her arms latching around them both with such force that Keela and Clara's heads whacked together.

"Ouch," Keela snapped, even in her rage sounding more offended than angry.

"Sorry. Sorry," Molly sang, not sounding sorry in the least as she hauled them over to two empty seats in between her and her brother, Archie. Callum had been retiring early the last few days to fiddle away with some astronomy project so he was absent from the table, his spot being filled by the broodingly handsome figure of Cedric Diggory. Spread in front of him was a sheet filled with a variety of circles and random red arrows pointed aggressively towards some squares.

"What made you two so late?" Archie murmured distractedly, his eyes glued to a stack of papers of a similar make to Cedric's.

"Oh, we were just discussing the state of Clara's wand," Keela said off-handedly, loading her plate with ham and fresh rolls.

Molly gave a considering hum, her brows knitting together for a moment as she stuffed a large bite of pumpkin pie in her mouth. Molly had been the person to come and help her back to the common area when the nurse had finally cleared Clara to go back to her house. Because of this, she had also been the first person that Clara had told.

"The quidditch match is tomorrow," Clara suddenly murmured, finally understanding the papers that the two were obsessing over.

Cedric's head tipped up, his hand propping up his chin as he gave a tired sigh. A few girls and some boys nearby let out a collective exhale as his hair flopped into his eyes tiredly. "Against Gryffindor," he clarified, looking vaguely worried. "They've got one of the best seekers I've seen in a while."

"Aren't you a seeker?" Clara asked skeptically, wincing as Cedric rolled his eyes.

"Please," he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "I'm also the team captain and I'm not _stupid-"_

Archie snorted, raising his brows.

"When it comes to quidditch," Cedric finished with a glare in his chasers direction. "I know that I don't stand a chance once Harry's gotten his beady, little eyes on that snitch."

"Isn't his vision..." Clara made an iffy noise, wiggling her fingers. He did wear glasses. How well could he see without them?

Cedric stared across the table as if he was seeing her for the first time. "Are you suggesting that I blind him?"

"I'm so proud," Keela whispered, wiping invisible tears from her eyes.

"No!" Clara exclaimed, offended. "I'm suggesting that you knock his glasses off his face." At the astonished stares from around the table, she continued on defensively. "He won't be _permanently_ blind."

"I can help," Keela pitched in amiably, raising her hand.

"We're not punching a thirteen-year-old to win a quidditch match," Cedric snapped with finality earning a grumble from Keela and a shrug from Clara. She had just been trying to help. "To win we're going to have to acknowledge the fact that the snitch is more than likely out of the question."

"That means I'll have to make up for it," Archie said grimly, his mouth twisting down.

"And your boyfriend and his twin are right gits when they get those bats in their hands," Cedric grumbled, his eyes troubled as they stared over Clara's shoulder at the beaters in question. One of which met his gaze with an annoyingly smug chin tip.

Clara blinked, glancing around as Keela's brows went up, her eyes staying fixed to her plate. Molly blushed at the bewildered look that crossed the French witch's face.

"You're going out with Fred?" Clara blurted out, turning to Archie. Keela snorted, spraying some pumpkin juice from her nose as Archie looked up slowly from his papers. At his silence, Clara blanched, her stomach sinking in horror. "George?"

Keela let out a loud cackle.

"Oh dear," Molly murmured, dabbing a hand along a line of sweat that had appeared at her hairline.

"One: I actually like girls quite a bit," Archie said with an edge of intense sarcasm. His brows went down as he cast a dark look over his shoulder at the Gryffindor table. "Two: I wouldn't touch the Weasley twins if someone blindfolded me and shoved me into a four by four closet. And lined the walls with spikes and carnivorous animals."

The pages on the table snapped as he flipped them aggressively. Clara stared at him in dismay, blushing as Cedric's words sunk in a little further.

"Someone's protests quite a bit," Keela sang, popping a cherry in her mouth with a devilish glint in her eyes. The glare that Archie sent her was volcanic. "Oh, stop, darling. I know you only have eyes for me."

Molly coughed delicately beside her, a noticeable blush coloring Archie's cheeks.

Across the table, Cedric took in the exchange in an almost surprised sort of trance. His brows creased. "So you're saying that you and George aren't-"

Keela grinned, waggling her brows at Clara. "Putting hickeys on each other-"

"Bumping uglies in the kitchen-" Archie grumbled, clearing revolted by the thought.

Molly sipped delicately at her tea, her voice gently probing. "Burning the midnight oil-"

Clara's face had simultaneously gone pale and red, her cheeks burning brightly as each accusation seemed to suck a little more out of her.

Cedric gave her a soft smile. "In an intimate and caring relationship."

"I um-" Clara blinked quickly, trying to push out any thoughts of performing any one of those actions with George. And confused at the tumble of emotions that even touching on one of those caused. Her heart hurt. "No - I mean - We're friends. I care about him, um - as any friend would care about another friend. Friends."

There was a long silence in which all of the concerning Hufflepuffs turned to stare down at the fumbling witch.

"Oh good," Keela finally said dryly. "Friends."

"The friendliest of friends, apparently," Archie supplied blandly, going back to flicking through his papers.

"It's good to have friends," Molly finished, her assurance seeming strangely… well, unsure.

"Yes," Clara burst, her voice wobbling as she stuffed a whole roll into her mouth, her hair sticking to the back of her neck with sweat. At the moment, she more closely resembled an albino squirrel storing away nuts than a young witch.

"Huh," Cedric murmured, squinting across the table at Clara in concentration. Briefly, his gaze flicked over Clara's shoulder once more, a sort of light sparking in his eyes. "Say… would you want to come to the game tomorrow?"

"Um." Clara choked down the fluff of pastry in her mouth, grabbing rabidly at any attempt to change the subject. A bolt of lightning cracked through the hall, making the rain clouds decorating the ceiling bursting with light as they imitated the weather outside. "It won't be like that tomorrow will it?"

"That won't stop a match," Archie grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. Cedric looked grim at the prospect. Clara thought about the last time she had been in a downpour like that and remembered rather vividly that her sister had called her a drowned rat. And then the resulting fluff of frizz that her hair had become afterwards.

"But it will cause for a rousing wet t-shirt contest," Keela cooed, winking over Clara's head at the dejected chaser.

Molly sighed dreamily, a goofy smile curling her lips. "Fred and George in wet clothes."

"Oh, how we love a man after a rough day on the quidditch field," Keela said solemnly to which Cedric's brows rose. "Oh, don't give me that look. You'll have your fair share of rabid fangirls. We can't out ourselves as a couple of Cedric lovers with you here at the table."

Seemingly appeased, Cedric turned his attention back to Clara with a bemused smile. "Archie and I will pick you up and drop you off at the stands." Molly gave a delicate cough. "And Molly and Keela, of course."

"We'll be crossing paths with the Weas-" Archie started but stopped at the cutting glance that Cedric shot him. Clara didn't hear them, her mind still on how long it had taken her to untangle her hair. Hours. Painful hours.

Clara's brows furrowed, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. "Will there be-"

"Yes," Cedric crowed, a bit overjoyed at the prospect. He smiled charmingly. "Make sure to wear as much gold and black as possible."

"Oh you sneaky dog," Keela started, shooting him a conspiratorial glance but Clara hardly noticed it before something thumped down on her head so hard that she momentarily saw stars.

Twinkles gave an enraged caw as he let the red envelope go, shaking himself overhead so that nearby students yelped as they got drenched. Still dazed, Clara only saw the blur of bluish-black feathers before Twinkles swooped away with all of the ham from her plate.

"Oh no," Molly whispered, all of her surrounding friends drawing back with similar expressions of foreboding as they eyed the quivering letter currently sitting in her smashed pumpkin pie.

Clara blinked, rubbing at her head as she looked around. She had never received a letter like this one before. Usually, the ones her parents sent were purple with the family crest. Confused, she glanced around again, noticing that a few students at other tables had turned towards her with almost identical expressions of glee. Clara frowned, reaching forward to tug at the seal on the envelope in perplexed silence.

"I wouldn't-" Keela started, shaking her head furiously just as Archie and Molly jumped to say something as well.

"Wait until you get to the common-"

"It'll be worse if-"

"What-" Before the word could completely leave her mouth, the red envelope gave a shudder and burst into the air, splatter Clara and Archie with a fair amount of pumpkin pie.

"CLARA MARGARET DESCHAMP, HOW DARE YOU?!" A terrible voice boomed from the toothy mouth that the letter had twisted itself into. Distantly, as all of the blood rushed from her head, Clara recognized that it was her father's voice with the soft, whispered voice of her mother barely audible somewhere in the background. "PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE HAS CONTACTED US ABOUT YOUR _ACTIVITIES_ AND, YOUNG LADY WE ARE _FURIOUS_!"

"Activities?" Clara distantly heard someone quip and a dull thumping started in the back of Clara's head as she shrunk away from the red letter.

"SHATTERING ALL OF THE SCHOOL'S WINDOWS-"

"Father, it was just a few," Clara pleaded, suddenly finding her voice.

Keela gave her a sad glance, patting her back. "It's not a two-way conversation, darling."

"So I'm meant to just-" Clara shook her head, dizzy.

"Sit here and take it?" Archie took a deep breath, shaken. "Yeah."

"NOT TO MENTION YOUR WAND!" At this, her mother's voice piped up.

"Now darling you can't possibly blame her for needing a new wand."

At this, there was an audible splutter. "Yes, well - NOT THE POINT! YOU HAVE SOME EXPLAINING TO DO, YOUNG LADY. AND YOUR GRADES! TRUST AND BELIEVE THAT WE'VE SEEN YOUR DEFENSE GRADES - AN EMBARRASSMENT! AFTER ALL THE TRAINING - _DECONCERTANT_ -" A few sentences exclaimed in French rallied off quickly as her father seemingly walked away, grumbling to himself.

There were a few moments of silence before her mother's voice came softly back. "Now, dearest we're not blaming you - well, perhaps your father is blaming you a bit but you must know what a shock this is. Not so much the windows but your wand and your grades… We shall be in contact in a few more days to arrange for your wand. Until then, please don't get into any trouble. And for the love of Circe, get your Defense grades up or your father will melt a pigeon."

With that, the letter tumbled into itself, twisting and ripping at itself until it was a pile of shredded paper inside of the sweet potato soup. A moment of silence passed in which Clara tried to wrap her head around what had just happened. And how everyone in the Great Hall had heard.

Even now, little sections of nearby students had huddled up, whispering conspiratorially among themselves as they shot glances at the white-haired witch and her friends.

"You broke the Great Hall windows?" Cedric finally asked, breaking the tense silence. Clara winced, shrinking a little back.

Keela and Molly both braced, remembering Clara's panic when she had tried to explain that although technically she _had_ broken the windows, she hadn't _meant_ to.

"I-" Clara started, trying to find the words that would make everyone stop looking at her like she had just picked up her fork and jammed it into her own arm. But the truth was that there were no words to make her seem any less odd. "It was-"

"That was a bit of a nasty one," a warm voice came from behind Clara, making a flood of relief wash over her.

"George!" she almost cheered, spinning around to smile gratefully up at the tall red-head. For a moment, his brows went up in surprise before his eyes were softening to a warm caramel.

Behind her, Cedric hid a smug smile, his eyes taking in the few seconds of silence as the two took each other in. If everything went well tomorrow then his chasers would either have an easy time of it or they would be running for their lives. Just across from him, Archie scowled. A 50/50 chance of being murdered tomorrow wasn't exactly what he considered to be a good game plan.

"First howler?" the beater questioned, eyeing the shredded remains of the letter with amusement before he was smirking down at the pale witch.

"Is that what they're called?" Clara questioned glumly.

"Does France not have them?" Molly asked curiously. Keela took a noisy bite from a basket of raw carrots earning her a sideways glance from some of the girls down the table.

"Keeps the hair carroty," she replied with a wink in their direction, still chewing noisily.

Clara thought for a moment. From the best of her knowledge, they didn't. "We have Lover's Letters and… oh yes. Cordial ones and Larks."

From the open stares that were coming her way, she gathered that they had no clue what she was talking about. "Lover's Letters are meant for-"

"Your lover," George supplied, giving her a smile that made her stomach flip. Blushing, she continued on.

"Yes. You can get it to rain rose petals or sing a sonnet - it's really quite lovely." Clara's father sent her mother these religiously. Always a shimmering, purple envelope that spewed confetti hearts or sunshine and petals. Clara herself had even received one once from a boy in Beauxbaton.

But that had been a while ago now.

"Well, that's definitely not the purpose of a howler," Archie sighed, looking tired as he flipped over the stack of papers. George's eyes narrowed on the action, his hands going to his pockets.

"Going over game plans?" he asked a bit too casually, brows quirked up.

Archie's scowl deepened. "Yes. I suppose your lot just jets in there with raw animal talent and devilish good looks."

"Amen," Clara heard Keela murmur reverently. Behind her, she felt George shift, his side brushing her shoulders warmly.

George tipped his head back and forth, considering for a moment with a cocky smirk. "Sometimes I come in with some snacks as well."

Clara repressed the urge to laugh, seeing Archie's thunderous expression.

"Arrogant ass," Archie hissed, glaring at the beater with a volcanic fury.

"What Archie means is that we look forward to playing you on the field tomorrow," Cedric cut in, smiling amiably up at George.

Molly and Keela sent each other knowing looks, brows raised. The basic motto of Hufflepuff was something along the lines of : _kill 'em with kindness._ And if a tone of voice was any indication, George Weasley would be six feet under at the moment. Uneasily, Clara eyed the trio of Quidditch players. She had never really been in this sort of position before. If she cheered both of them on, would that make them both angry with her? Surely, choosing sides would be worse. A furrowed worked its way between her brows.

Clara decided that they would just have to deal with it. They weren't children after all.

"I guess that's the nice way you lot tell someone to bugger off," George said with a cheeky grin. Behind them, a low whistle drew his attention. Fred waved at his twin emphatically, motioning to his wrist in an exasperatedly obvious way. Grinning, George ruffled Clara's hair and winked down at the thoroughly disheveled witch as she blinked owlishly up at him. "See you tomorrow, Clara love. Wear red."

"She'll do nothing of the sort!" Archie replied peckishly, earning a snort from the red-head as he made his way back to his table.

"Yes," Keela called primly, puffing up her chest. "Clara love, will do nothing of the sort!" She rolled her eyes back to the blushing witch beside her. "Yes. Totally friends."

* * *

_As always, please leave a **REVIEW** and I hope to see you next chapter._


	13. A Scarf, a Badger and a Quidditch Game

It was a sordid, awful English day the morning of the match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. The sky was dark and foreboding, the clouds rolling together as if holding themselves back from a great downpour.

"Like they're just waiting for us to get out on that field," Archie said grimly, fully outfitted in the honey yellow and black of the houses quidditch gear. Thick, leather pads protected his arms and shins. Absently, he cleaned the goggles that hung loosely around his neck. Beside him, Molly mumbled away, her wand flitting back and forth over his broom as she performed a spell to keep it dry through the flight. She had done the same with his clothes, making sure to focus on Archie's boots. If his feet slipped, that ground would be a hard lesson on why enchanting your broom for harsh weather was essential.

Keela frowned up at the clouds. She didn't particularly like the rain. It led to colds and colds led to snot and snot - scientifically speaking - was just the body's way of telling you that you needed to shove lotion up your own nose because it was dry up there. However, Molly was Archie's brother and Archie had rather grown on her in the last year or two and so she had put a water charm on her boots and looked up a quick umbrella spell.

"I think it's splendid," Cedric said cheerily, staring happily up into the crackling mass of clouds above. They had already wound their way through most of the halls and were now trudging through the undergrowth to the school's quidditch fields. The team was getting there a bit early so Clara, Molly, and Keela had the pick of the Hufflepuff seats.

"You won't think it's so splendid when you get a lightning bolt to the head," Clara grumbled, flattening her hair closer to her skull as much as she could, staring grumpily and rather distrustfully up at the sky.

"You know what clouds mean?" Cedric continued on merrily.

"Oh! Oh! Choose me for this one, professor!" Keela snapped, jumping up and down while raising her hand impatiently. She batted her eyes. "Rain?"

"Low visibility," Cedric smirked, eyeing the sky with a creepily dazed look of joy. "Which means that the snitch is going to be harder to catch."

"I'm sorry," Clara snapped as her fair frizzed back to life under the perceived threat of oncoming rain. Like a porcupine trying to ward off the attack of an enemy. Her eyes glittered in the morning light. "But aren't _you_ a seeker?"

Cedric stared blankly down at the witch. "I don't see your point."

"Your job is to catch the snitch, no?" she hissed growing more and more agitated at his vacant gaze. Fuming, she glanced around for help. "Am I not understanding something? Does being a seeker mean something different in England?"

"I take my role as team captain much more seriously," he said with an off-handed wave. Absently, he rummaged around in his bag, coming out with a very long, gold and black scarf. "The real question is why aren't you wearing your scarf? I told you to wear Hufflepuff colors."

"Yes, Clara love," Keela piped in petulantly. "You're ruining the plan."

"It's in the wash," Clara said glumly, tugging her robe a bit closer to her neck. She had warded her clothes as much as possible but their magic could only do so much against mother nature. And as the winds picked up, the lack of heat amulets on her became more and more apparent. It was going to be a long quidditch game.

Hogwarts' quidditch field was a far enough walk from the school to be a nice morning excursion. On normal days, the house colors were stripped from the massive structure, leaving it to its natural barren wood. Now, however, the alternating colors were stark against the darkening sky. The house banners whipped angrily in the wind, giving a rather foreboding indication of the weather to come.

"I don't see why this is so important," Clara huffed, trying not to grow agitated as the static of created by Cedric's scarf made her hair frizz up even more.

"Careful, Cedric," Keela warned as the seeker went to wrap the scarf snuggly around the witch's neck. Archie rolled his eyes. "Your fans might see."

"Oh bugger off, Keela," Cedric grumbled, ignoring the altogether grumpy look that Clara was flashing him as he completed another loop around her neck. For a moment, Cedric thought of that long glance that Weasley and she had shared just the evening before and second thoughts began to invade. Would giving her his scarf be too much?

"OI!" Clara blinked, whipping to the side and away from the imposing figure of Cedric Diggory to the direction of a pair of redheads who were making their way down the hill with their brooms clenched beside them.

"Oh you're in for it now," Keela whispered, tugging the frizzy-haired witch over to her side.

"He looks angry," Clara murmured, frowning as she took in the thunderous expression on George's face. Beside him, Fred grimaced, his eyes moving suspiciously from Cedric to Clara and then back again.

"I don't condone any of the actions that have led us to this outcome," Molly said nervously, clutching her brother's broom in her hands.

"Well, you're in it now," Archie grumbled, crossing his arms uncertainly.

"Oh, you two have made sure of that, haven't you?" Molly hissed right back, glaring at the Hufflepuff beater and seeker.

As for Clara, she had absolutely no clue what they were talking about. Nor did she particularly care. Because at the moment, George looked… Well, he looked ridiculously handsome, if she were being honest with herself. Too handsome for her to entirely think straight. His reddish hair had turned darker from the storm clouds above and the wind had twisted it into a riot. His eyes snapped in the low light and his uniform fit snugly around his rather broad shoulders, tapering at his waist.

His lips, which were usually twisted into a mocking smirk, were curled down. Clara blinked in surprise, taken aback. What could he have gotten his feathers that ruffled? George was never this angry. Or, at least he had never been this angry around her.

"Weasleys," Cedric called amiably, his smile broad and warm as the twins got closer, their crimson robes snapping in the wind. "Nice day for a quidditch match, isn't it?"

"Suppose," Fred replied with a fake kind of smile. "But then again, every day's a nice day to win in my book."

A muscle twitched in Cedric's temple, his smile going stiff. For a moment, Clara saw a bit of actual frustration peek through and was mildly impressed. The Weasley's charm was penetrating even to the most steeled.

"Glad to hear your confidence hasn't been affected at all," Archie grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Boys and their quidditch games," Keela muttered under her breath, obviously unenthused by the veiled hostility charging the air. Beside her, Molly twisted her brother's broom nervously in her hands.

George had remained uncharacteristically quiet through the short exchange, his eyes flicking over the scarf that was covering half of the little French witch's face. Grudgingly, he had to admit that she looked adorable, her nose red and her cheeks bright with the chill air, luminous, tawny eyes poking from beneath a shade of lashes. But that was all he was going to admit because something in his gut was twisting, gnawing rabidly ever since he had seen that pretty boy, Cedric tuck it around her neck. Who the hell was this guy anyway? One minute he's discussing the benefits of moisturizing before bedtime with his little lackeys and signing some pictures of himself and then all of a sudden he's talking to Clara every day. What the fuck was that?

George's eyes narrowed, something like calm taking place of all that rage. Because she was looking at him. She hadn't taken her eyes off of him since the moment that she had heard his voice. Was it a fluke? Did he care if it was?

"I thought I told you to wear red." Even George was startled by the gravelly texture to his voice, the way it rolled from his throat like a bag of rocks. Clara's eyes widened, finally snapping back to herself.

"I'm a Hufflepuff," she defended lamely, biting at her lip. She did feel oddly awful that she wasn't supporting him. But he seemed to have enough going for him. Gryffindor was one of the hardest houses to beat. They had won countless times and maybe that came from their frankly brutal style. They did things that were reckless and foolhardy. Things like leaping off their brooms mid-flight to catch snitches or aiming bludgers at the outstretched arms of opponents.

Clara had even heard from Cedric that Fred and George had purposefully slammed a bludger at one of the keepers, knocking him unconscious so that they could get a fresh, decidedly inexperienced one to take his place.

"Yeah," Archie threw in, crossing his arms with a glare. "A Hufflepuff."

"Oh don't get your feathers in a ruffle, Professor Hufflepuff," Keela threw out sarcastically.

Cedric's easy smile had returned as he caught the tightening of George's lips, his eyes narrowing on the curly-haired beater. "You have your house and we have ours, Weasley. That's just the way it goes."

There was a moment of tense silence between the four quidditch players, each pair shifting as if readying themselves for whatever mayhem was about to proceed. Beside George, Fred shifted, moving a bit closer to his brother's side as Archie and Cedric stared at them, Archie grimly and Cedric with a decidedly pleasant smile.

"This is ridiculous," Keela muttered, her hair thrashing with another gust of wind.

Molly pulled out her wand, still eyeing the four warily but deciding that if her brother was going to waste time in this petty squabble then she shouldn't. His broom still needed another spell on the footholds to keep his grip.

Beside the pair of girls, Clara blew out a breath, growing confused and more than that, agitated at the continued glaring. She didn't know why it even mattered which team she rooted for. In this weather, whoever won would be by sheer luck anyway.

"I don't like this kind of pressure," she snapped, ripping at the scarf around her neck until it was fully off and her hair was a frizzy halo all around her face. Angrily, she thrust the scarf into Cedric's bag. "Whoever wins, wins and in the meantime, I'm going to go sit with Slytherin."

The group as a whole took in a quick breath, staring at the quietly fuming witch as she tried and failed to get the whole of Cedric's scarf back into his bag, one side after another falling back out into the grass. The seeker in question looked scandalized, his mouth open in a look of pure horror.

"I'm sure that Slytherin's are absolutely delightful-" Molly started nervously.

"No, they're not," Fred snapped. "They're little gits with mommy issues."

"George-" Molly reprimanded.

"Yeah, George," George scolded, shoving his brother as he stepped forward to grab the scarf out of Clara's hands. "Don't say mean things about our friends."

Archie rolled his eyes with Keela. Clara blinked up at the beater, his hands strong and warm as they slipped the gold and black scarf from her grip and gave her a wink that made her stomach flip.

"Get out of my bag-" Cedric started, slapping at George's hands and only getting a returning slap in response.

"I think we can all agree that this is silly," George said with an air of superiority, completely belying the fact that he had just been up in arms mere seconds earlier. Deftly, he started to pull his own scarf from around his neck, stepping a little bit closer to Clara until he was looming over her and she caught the sweet smell of fresh grass and whiskey. "Therefore, I'll be taking Clara's scarf and she'll be taking mine."

"Brilliant, Freddie," Fred murmured in awe.

"Thank you, Georgie."

Cedric's shoulders went up, his cheeks reddening for a moment. "That's my-"

"One minute, Cedric ol' pal," George called, tossing the Hufflepuff scarf around his neck and then leaning down to Clara with a winning smirk. "I can't hear you over all the scarf exchanging that we're doing over here."

Cedric's face reddened even more, his eyes flicking to Archie for help but only getting a noncommittal shrug in return. Molly and Keela stared blankly over at him. There was nothing to be done. Or more precisely, what was to be done was already being done. Unless Cedric planned on tackling George and wrestling the scarf from him (which would more than likely end in the mutual destruction of both) he could only stand and watch. Enraged, Cedric tried again. "George, that's-"

"FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, MAN!" Fred bellowed. "LET THE MAN WORK!"

"This isn't very nice," Clara murmured to George, the taller boy leaning farther around her as he looped the red and black scarf around her neck one more time. Jolts of electricity and awareness shivered up her spine each time his fingers grazed along her neck or ears, something deep inside of her shaking. A soft smile worked its way onto his lips, his deeper amber eyes swirling with mischief.

"You're the nice one here, love. Not me," he whispered back, his hands completing the final loop and just staying there for a moment, curling a stray strand of kinky hair around his fingers. And there was a moment where Clara stopped breathing, her eyes taking in the slight splatter of freckles along his nose and they way that his hair glittered with gold and red even in this low light.

And then he was turning away, his hands dropping from her hair and a showman's grin hiking his lips higher.

"Everybody happy?" he asked.

"Well, I would certainly say not-" Cedric snapped, his cheeks growing a ruddy red, his eyes glittering with barely contained rage.

"Oh no," Molly murmured, staring at the quivering form of the Hufflepuff seeker.

"Someone's woken the beast," Keela winced.

George and Fred looked absolutely delighted. "If no one has any objections-"

"You arrogant-" Cedric snarled.

"We'll be on our way," Fred finished, taking a bounding run towards the quidditch field beyond.

"Toodles," George snickered, ruffling Clara's hair into a flurry once more before bouncing after his brother.

For a moment, the only sound from the wayward Hufflepuffs was the wind dragging its fingers through the blades of grass at their feet, ripping at their cloaks. Clara blinked, her mind suddenly calming from the bubbling mess that George had created. Her nose was stuffed into the folds of the tattered scarf, ink stains marking the edges like dots of a timeline. It had definitely seen more quidditch matches then Clara ever had and it was still warm from its place around George's neck. And - she took a deep, calming breath - it still held his scent.

"Well, wasn't that fun?" Keela finally said lamely.

Cedric was still noticeably shaken, his hands clenched at his side. "I'm going to kill them."

"Sure, you are, tiger," Archie muttered, his brows going up in a clearly unconvinced expression.

Clara's brows furrowed. "Tiger? What's a tiger?"

"I don't know," Archie replied with a shrug. "Callum had it in one of his little, muggle books."

"I think it's an animal…" Molly said thoughtfully.

"Come on, Cedric honey," Keela said, softly taking the taller boys' shoulders to steer him in the direction of the field.

Cedric blinked rapidly. "They just took my scarf, Keela. They just…"

"I know, honey," she soothed, rubbing his back. "Gryffindor scoundrels, they are."

"And thieves," he squeaked out, clearly shaken to his very core.

"Sssshhh," Molly hushed, patting his head "We'll get you another one. A better one."

Clara and Archie fell behind, both unwilling to give the Hufflepuff seeker any sort of sympathy.

"This is pathetic," Archie grumbled, staring into the back of Cedric's head like he was trying to determine whether it was a melon or a skull.

"CHO CHANG GAVE ME THAT SCARF!" Cedric wailed, falling into a heap against Keela's shoulder.

"Go Hufflepuff?" Clara tried lamely.


	14. Loop Holes and Other Slippery Surfaces

"We should have oiled his broom with a _uentis_ potion," Clara said grimly, staring out across the muddy, wind-whipped field that was currently serving as the quidditch arena.

"How the hell were we supposed to know that it was going to get this bad?" Keela snapped just as a chaser on the Hufflepuff team went whipping past, splattering all those close enough with wayward rain.

The heaven's had opened up just as Archie had predicted - just as the teams stepped foot from the safety of their individual tents. Most had had trouble even getting their feet from the mud to lift off. And that had only been the beginning.

Cedric had been right about the low visibility that these clouds would cause. In fact, most of the audience could make out little more than individual blurs of red and gold. Little did they know that that went for the players themselves as well. More than once, Archie had almost flown straight into one of his teammates. And just moments before, a bludger had slammed into the tip of his broomstick so hard that it had sent him slamming into the side of one of the stands. More than the twins who were wreaking havoc from just above the could cover, the rain pelted each player enough that if they wanted to, the beaters could have taken the morning off and sat on the sidelines.

As it was, the teams were barely able to communicate anything other than single words at close range over the howl of the winds and the claps of thunder. Even Lee had been pulled off announcement box by Professor McGonagall due to the fact that his voice barely reached the people around him.

" _Liquet_ ," Clara snapped, picking up a discarded drink bottle and tapping her wand along it. Professor Dumbledore had allowed her to keep her own wand for the time being and while it still prickled her insides to use it, the spells that she cast were at a normal student's power level. Clara would hate to see the change when a regular wand that she was compatible with came her way.

Drawing the bottle to her eyes, she was able to focus on the individual players. Nodding, she handed it over to Molly who had been gnawing worriedly at her nails, her eyes narrowed to slits against the rain, her bow a dripping mess atop her curls. She had seen her brother lose control and almost fall from his broom by that errant bludger. And she was fairly sure that that wouldn't be the first time in a game like this one.

"How do you know a spell like that?" Keela asked, eying the bottle suspiciously as Molly swiveled around with it pressed to her nose.

Clara shrugged, thinking about the pile of spellbooks that her father had forced at her every summer. He had said that it would help her with her classes in Beauxbaton but more than that she thought it had something to do with wanting her to be prepared as possible. Prepared for when things went wrong. Prepared for when you didn't have any friends to lean upon. "I like to learn things that are useful."

"OH! There he is!" Molly suddenly shrieked, leaning almost completely over the edge of the bleacher's edge that they were on. Since they had arrived so early, the girls had been able to snag a couple of Hufflepuff seats in the very front row, right up against the ledge.

"HOW'S HE DOING THERE, MOLLY?" A Hufflepuff boy yelled to her from a few rows behind.

"I have some heat amulets-" a girl just to our right called, waving the red jewels around. She had strung them onto leather strings to keep them at her neck.

"Why hasn't Cedric called for time?" another Hufflepuff asked, sounding worried and angry all at once.

A burly boy just beside Clara shook his head, spraying her with water. Not that she wasn't already soaked straight through. Although her robes had been weatherproofed it would have taken a week of spells for them to not become a complete disaster from this amount of rain. Especially considering the fact that George's scarf had become a giant rag to soak up all the rain possible before dripping it down her shirt. "We're up by points right now. Gryffindor wasn't expecting the rain to be this bad so we were able to get a couple of quick points on Woods. Suppose he doesn't want to let go of it when the snitch is still out there with Potter."

Shivering beneath the torrent of wind and rain, Clara couldn't help but feel that a time out was something that all of them needed. A time out from the game and a time out from the rain.

The clack of something wooden hitting against each other caught Clara's attention, her eyes narrowing through the storm to see the soaked forms of two beaters in red, knocking their bats together. George and Fred, Clara realized watching as one of the twins shook his head. A yellow and black scarf whipped in the wind defiantly from one of their necks, his hair a dripping mess as he tried to shake himself out.

Even through the low visibility, Clara knew that they were the only reason that Hufflepuff hadn't scored more goals. More than once they had caught the shoulder of one of their team's chasers, sending them off course long enough for the other to go and draw the attention the Gryffindor keeper, pointing Woods in the direction of the oncoming threat.

As she watched, George dove to the side, speeding towards one of his own teammates and taking a bludger to the side just before it hit one of the chasers right in the face. He visibly winced, catching the ball as it rebounded and sending it straight for the other team's beater.

"Oh, they've scored a point," Molly suddenly said, her hands tightening on the bottle.

"Our team?" Clara asked, tearing her eyes away from George as he zoomed back to where his brother hovered just above the treeline.

Molly grimaced, shaking her head. "Afraid not. Gryffindor."

"I don't have a good feeling about that," Keela muttered, elbowing in beside the burly wizard just beside Clara to get some coverage from the rain.

And she was certainly right. Within the next hour, Gryffindor had scored four more points and the twins had knocked Archie from his broom not once but twice. They had surprisingly good aim for being partially blinded.

"TIME OUT!" Madam Hooch roared over the rain, blowing into her whistle as all of the players faltered midflight before sinking gratefully to the ground.

"Finally," the burly boy muttered as Molly tossed aside the bottle and darted for the player's tents.

"Give Archie some amulets," the girl from earlier whispered as they passed, shoving a few into Clara's hands as she passed.

A few wayward umbrellas and cloaks whipped past them as they made their way through the stands, huddles of students shivering until blankets or in a collective heap.

"They're up by fifty points, Cedric!" a tall witch with the name Macavoy stitched onto her back. Her hair had come out of its tight ponytail, dripping onto her already soaked robes.

"Thank you, Macavoy," Cedric snapped, rubbing a hand through his hair with an irritated smile. "I hadn't noticed through all this sodden rain."

"They're going to win," she continued on, her hands clenching. "AGAIN!"

Cedric's eyes closed for a moment. "Please stop. All the enthusiasm is really throwing me off my game."

Clara slipped a bit through the giant puddle that had begun to form on the wooden floor of the tent. Professor Sprout burst through the tent flaps just as the three girls caught sight of Archie, shivering in the corner nearest the unlit firepit.

" _Exhauriat_ ," she called merrily, waving her wand at the floor as all of the water seeped through the floorboards to leave dry wood in its place. "You lot are doing splendid out there - just wonderful. Can't even begin to imagine why Professor Dumbledore would have allowed you to play in the first place. Extraordinary really."

Even when she was criticizing she sounded like she was happy.

"Archie," Molly breathed, running over to the soaked mess of her brother. "Archie, are you alright?"

Archibald Vansteen was thoroughly shocked. He was shocked that he had survived crashing to the muddy field not once but twice. And he was shocked that he was about to get on his broomstick to go out and do it once more. Dazed, Archie blinked up at his sister through muddy lashes.

"Do you need to be cleaned off?" Keela asked, actually sounding nervous for the first time since Clara had met the red-haired witch.

"I know a spell-" Clara chimed in, already riffling around in her sordid robes to try and get her wand.

Archie hand shot out, stopping them. "No. Please no. If I get dry and warm then it'll be even worse when I have to go out there again."

"Oh Archie," Molly whispered, sitting down beside her brother to try and warm him.

Cedric limped over, clearing exhausted from having to navigate through the winds on his broomstick. "Those bludgers are nasty today."

"Those _twins_ are nasty today," Archie corrected grimly. "It's like the weather just increases their wicked, little attitudes."

"And their accuracy," Cedric agreed quietly.

Across the tent, the other Hufflepuff players gave individual huffs of agreement, even Professor Sprout.

"We can dry your brooms and make the footholds more secure," Clara said matter-of-factly. Her eyes moved over their goggles. "I also know a quick spell to allow you to see better in the rain."

Cedric blinked before glancing over at Professor Sprout. "Is that allowed?"

"Spells cast on the opposing team are prohibited but…" Her smile grew a little bit. "No there aren't any specific rules against using enchantments or charms to allow you to fly better or see clearer. Normally, students of your age simply don't have the knowledge to use magic to help so significantly."

"I could kiss you right now, Clara," Cedric said with a glimmer of insanity lighting his eyes. Behind him, the other girls on the team rolled their eyes. They had grown used to his general flattery. In fact, after a year on the quidditch team with him, they had all decided rather quickly that while he was cute, his dense nature would make him a horrible boyfriend.

"Careful, sweetie," Keela warned, giving him a pat on the head. "Or all of your admirers will claw their way through the tent and eat Clara alive."

"I wouldn't particularly like that," the witch in reference said distractedly, gathering all of the team's goggles up and beginning the process of enchanting them. "And I don't know if the kiss would even be worth a portion of the harassment I would receive."

Looking more than slightly offended at the insinuation, Cedric gave a long speech about his daily teeth cleaning and lip treatment process. It turned out that minty breath was 50% of the battle when it came to kissing.

"All done!" Clara declared just as Molly and Keela gave small nods of agreement.

"I think it's time for a nap and some pumpkin pie," Keela yawned, twirling her wand as the Hufflepuff players took their brooms back.

"Fifteen minutes up!" Professor Sprout called from outside fo the tent, ushering all of the players back to the field with a nervous, motherly flutter. "Oh, dears do be careful. I know you want to win but we really don't need the points this year anyway. We can always make it up next year."

"Oh we're gonna win this," their keeper said grimly, looking halfway to murder as he stared at the Gryffindor tent only a pace or two away. As they watched, Woods and his players began to file out, looking soaked but determined.

Clara hovered by the canary yellow flaps of her own tent, watching the gust of wind take a few more umbrellas in its grip and blow them away. The rain hadn't died in the short time that she had been in the tent. In fact, she was amazed to see that it might have gotten a bit worse, the rain stinging her cheeks as it whipped around them. Her robes, which had dried a bit while she had been inside, soaked through once more within seconds.

"Kiss for luck?" George's eyes glittered down at her beneath the mess of reddish hair, mud-splattered across his face and a smirk curling his lips. Cedric's scarf still hung around his neck, limp from the rain.

Clara's heart gave a small leap at the words, her lips curling in reply. "I'm afraid that with any more luck, you'll have Archie in the hospital."

"Kiss for general well being?" His smile had grown even more mischievous.

Clara felt a moment of uncertainty. Did he flirt with everyone like this? He had to. He had flirted with Delphine. She hadn't even seemed surprised when he did. So the answer would have to be yes, wouldn't it? Sudden anxiety crept along Clara's spine. She had too many things to think about besides a troublemaker.

No. She wouldn't get involved with George. It would be stupid of her. Besides, she didn't even really know if he thought of her like that. He ruffled her hair like she was a child, teased her like she was an old friend - it was all a bit too confusing.

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll kiss you _if_ you beat Hufflepuff," she said boldly and his eyes narrowed for a moment, his head tipping to the side.

"We're up by fifty points," he murmured, his eyes swirling to a darker amber. Something low and gravely had crept into his voice.

Clara smiled. "I know."

The truth was that there was no way that Gryffindor could win unless they had enchanted their brooms like the girls had done for the Hufflepuff team. To top it off, Clara's suggestion concerning Harry's glasses had partially come true. They were getting in the way of his ability to see the snitch. Already, Cedric had caught sight of the snitch twice and almost caught it. Harry, on the other hand, had almost gotten hit by a bludger five times now.

But Clara couldn't help dipping her toe in the pool that George had created. Would it drive him as crazy as it drove her? Clara couldn't help herself as she stared up at the dripping beater, his eyes darkening hungrily. No one had ever looked at her like that.

"Deal," George said evenly, his hand clenching around his broomstick. "If you win?"

The dripping witch's eyes narrowed, considering.

"I want to know how you've been able to sneak to the kitchens all this time." His eyes widened for a second, actual shock making him hesitate. In the past months, she had been catching glimpses of two shocks of red hair bobbing down corridors and then disappearing. She had even seen them sneaking behind the portrait of the fruit bowl on the weekends. Clara herself had found the entrance through sheer luck and her houses closeness to the kitchens. But a Gryffindor had no business knowing about that entrance.

"I might have underestimated you, Clara Deschamp," George finally said, his voice low.

Clara grinned. "Don't worry. You're not the first."

His eyes swept over her quickly. "Damn. You would have made a good Gryffindor."

Clara merely smiled. She highly doubted that she would have fit into his house. In fact, she rather liked the little home that she had made in the house of the badger. She wasn't sure that she would trade it for anything else that Hogwarts had to offer.

"I'll see you when you lose," she said, nodding to where his team had already disappeared to.

Slowly, George turned away, his eyes never leaving her as he made his way back to the quidditch field until he was around the bend and gone.

"That wasn't very nice," Keela said, sidling up beside her, her brows raised.

Clara frowned, sudden guilt taking over. Worriedly, she bit at her lip. "You think so?"

"You looked so cool!" Molly half-whispered, half-squealed as she took the shorter witch by the shoulders and shook her with an enormous grin.

"Yeah," Keela agreed, throwing an arm around both of their shoulders as they made their way back to their seats. "The coolness makes up for the way that you totally just duped him."

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_Please review and follow/favorite._

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There were some spells mentioned so I thought I would put a glossary below.

 _Uentis_ Potion: A potion that induces fair winds for the traveler in need of some broom stability.

 _Liquet:_ From Latin to English it means to clear. So it's basically a vision-enhancing spell. Brings things into focus.

 _Exhauriat:_ From Latin to English it means to drain.


	15. A Rousing Game of Who's Who

If Clara Deschamp had been happy about the utter decimation that befell the Gryffindor team after their time out, that would have quickly be dispelled at the agonized expression on George's face just as his team had left the field.

"I don't like it," Cedric muttered, looking disheveled and tired but angry all at once. His hair was a sloppy mess, slicked back with mud in some areas and completely dry in others. His quidditch robes were dry thanks to Professor Sprout but dirty and crusted with mud.

"You don't like winning?" Archie asked, his voice beaten by the full day of getting hit with bludgers. The beat down of the Hufflepuff chasers had continued into the second half of the game, picking up speed as the twins had sensed the changing tides of the game.

Clara glanced over the edge of the banister, catching the swirl of dark robes as the students chattered below the stairwell leading to the school infirmary. All of them, likely talking about the events of the quidditch game.

"I don't like winning like _this_ ," Cedric hissed, clearly disgusted, his eyes darkening.

"It was rather surprising that they continued the game with Harry falling from his broom like that," Clara murmured, remembering the swell of dementors and then that single piercing scream from Hermione as Harry's crimson robes had broken through the darkening clouds and rain.

"Cedric had already caught the snitch by then," Archie grumbled, wincing as they went up another flight of stairs. Beside him, Molly was shaking her bow out, trying to pat down the rumpled mess of her hair. Somehow she had gotten a variety of twig and leaves stuck into it.

Clara had simply given up trying to tame the unruly mess of her curls. After Professor Sprout had preformed the drying spell on the Hufflepuff lot, Clara's hair had poofed up like an inflating balloon, losing all gravitational reasoning as it fluffed towards the air.

"We're Hufflepuffs, Ced," Keela sighed, taking Archie's arm in her own as she saw him struggle up another step. Beside her, the bruised chaser let out a sigh, leaning into her warmth with a content expression. "They are Gryffindors. If you noticed the difference in our names, it's because we're two separate houses."

Clara gave a bland sigh. "Yes. Personally I would have fed Harry to a swarm of hippogriffs if it had meant the immediate success of our team today."

Keela nodded, completely missing the edge of sarcasm that had bled into Clara's voice. "Thank you, Clara. I'm glad you agree."

Cedric had barely heard the two, his brows tipped together unhappily. When he had touched down with the snitch in his hands, he had been happy. In fact, he had been more than happy. For the rest of his life, he would be able to say that he beat Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived on the quidditch field. He could picture his dad's face when he got the owl with the news, the hoots and boasting at the local pub he went to.

But that had all quickly vanished when he had landed in the midst of what could only be described as pandemonium. Potter had fallen from his broom from above the cloudline - no one could tell how high - and worse yet, the dementors had crept past the school boundaries and into the quidditch field. Already half of the teachers were snarling out spells, their wands pointed stiffly at the willowy forms of the creatures that still lingered at the edge of the field.

Woods was speaking furiously with Madame Hooch, gesturing angrily at the pale, limp form of Harry as one of the teachers performed a few warming spells on him. As he'd approached, that golden sphere still clutched in his fingers, fluttering sporadically, Woods and Hooch had stopped, turning to him.

"You've caught the snitch," Madame Hooch said dumbly.

"He's caught the snitch," Wood roared, clearly both enraged and borderline hysterical at the idea.

Cedric blinked, the quivering shell in his hands seeming cold and foreign. Wrong. His father would still be proud of him, even if he didn't win on fairgrounds. Cedric flinched. What was the use if he couldn't even beat Gryffindor in an even match? Harry was being taken to the infirmary and who really even cared that Cedric had the stupid snitch anyway? That wasn't what mattered.

"I don't want this win," he said, his eyes widening at the words that were coming out of his mouth. Woods had looked scandalized. "We'll redo the match when Harry's better - it's not fair like this."

When Madame Hooch had shaken her head, Cedric knew that he wouldn't be getting his way. There were only so many days in the school year and no one knew how long Harry would be in the infirmary. They weren't going to wait on him.

A cluster of Gryffindor quidditch players bustled past them, one of them giving Cedric a nasty sneer that made it all too clear who he blamed for their recent defeat.

"Hey!" Keela snapped, whirling around so that she could rage at their retreating backs. "Why don't you save that face for yur ma, ya burnt pumpkin pasty!"

"Want me to jinx them?" Clara offered slyly, sending Cedric a sideways glance that made him grimace.

"You look so small and nice but you're actually scary and kind of psychotic," the handsome quidditch keeper informed her, looking vaguely unsettled as she blinked up at him, her eyes wide and honest even in the wake of her offer.

Molly stepped a bit closer. "I know a place to put their shoes where they'll never find them."

Cedric grimaced, stalking toward the heavy doors of the infirmary. "No, Molly."

Molly stayed silent for a moment. "You can also put their ties ther-"

"I SAID NO!"

Frowning, Molly followed glumly after Cedric as he burst through the infirmary entrance, making his way singlemindedly towards a cot at the farthest corner of the room. While most of the beds were vacant, sheets tucked stiffly in with curtain dividers pressed here and there, this one was crowded with bedraggled Gryffindor students, still splattered with the games leftover mud.

Clara's eyes immediately snapped to the two tallest in the group, their hair a golden-red riot. If Clara had been confused about telling George and Fred apart before this moment, the amount of dirty crusting their robes and skin would have made them unrecognizable.

"I think lost shoes are a wonderful solution to bullying," Molly said to Clara quietly, elbowing her conspiratorially. "There's a reason why people have dreams about coming to class without pants."

"Yeah," Archie said blandly, still holding onto Keela. "Because people will be able to see their willy."

Keela nodded, her mismatched eyes sparkling. "It's the scarring humiliation that really gets 'em, Vansteen. After people see your willy there's no going back."

Molly took that in with a sort of silent contemplation before finally nodding. "Then I'll steal their shirts. That way they aren't completely embarrassed but there's still enough humiliation to make them really think about their actions."

Clara stared at the witch, not fully understanding her train of thought. Personally, she still thought that jinxing was the best course of action.

"Is anyone really confident about their stomachs?" she concluded, looking around as if to ask for open support to her cause.

"Sssshhhh!" Cedric hissed, shushing them with a venomous glance as we got closer to the cluster of Gryffindor students.

"Well, well, well," a low feminine voice broke in, the catlike gaze of Angelina Johnson, the Gryffindor chaser catching sight of them before anyone else. "If it isn't our favorite Hufflepuffs."

George's eyes immediately zeroed in on the bedraggled French witch, his expression one of immense agony and despair. Clara couldn't completely understand why except perhaps that he cared about quidditch a great deal more than she had originally thought.

"We're your favorite?" Cedric asked, his eyes lighting up hopefully. At the blank expression of all those assembled, he wilted, coughing nervously. "Right then. Well, I just came over here to see how Harry's fairing and...um and to say that I didn't like how that game ended. It wasn't fair-"

"Even though we definitely won," Keela cut in, looking vaguely defiant as she eyed the looming forms of the Gryffindors.

"By over 150 points," Archie piped up, earning a few pointed glares from the assembled quidditch players.

"If I had known," Cedric continued loudly. "That Harry - you - had fallen off your broom, then I wouldn't-"

"Have caught the snitch?" the dark-haired boy, currently propped up by a cluster of pillows asked blandly.

There was a long moment of silence in which the Hufflepuff students shuffled around nervously - or more accurately, Cedric shuffled and the others stared on in scornful, defiant silence - and the Gryffindors watched.

"Fred and George told me that you wanted to do a rematch," Harry finally said breaking the silence. "Either way, you were already up by a great deal so I think you won fair and square."

Clara noticed the tightness in his mouth though, taking in the stiffening of his shoulders and the general pain in seemed to take him to say those words. She had heard that he had always caught the snitch before today. To go from being undefeated to such a colossal loss must have been hard on him.

"The dementors affected you," Clara piped up, catching the widening of his eyes and the way that Hermione and Ron seemed to flinch at the statement. He had obviously talked to them a bit about what he had experienced. Someone with Harry's background… Well, it wasn't surprising that he had attracted their attention. Brushing back a chunk of hair that had fallen directly into her eyes (it immediately frizzed straight up, clinging on to her hand for a moment before drifting into the air with static) and pulled a soggy, slightly drenched bar of chocolate from her robes. "Here. Chocolate should help with the draining."

"Draining?" Harry questioned. Clara's eyes caught movement just to his elbow - Fred and George whispering furiously at each other, poking and elbowing as they had a near-silent argument.

"That's what dementors do," Clara said, shrugging. "They've been guarding the school grounds for how long now? They must be starving for a good meal and you happened to be flying around like a steak dinner. They couldn't help but take a bite."

"You said that they were despicable, miserable creatures," Fred cut in, his brows going up.

Clara nodded. "They are. But they're also _living_ creatures. They have needs and urges just like any other. If you know those then you'll be able to understand and avoid them." Her eyes found Harry's, her head tipping to the side. "They were just hungry, Harry."

"Well, that's bloody brilliant. I'll make sure to bring someone miserable with me from now on since I know that they're _just hungry_ ," Ron snapped, his mouth twisting sarcastically. George's lips twitched down, his hand flying out slap his brother in the back of the head. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?"

"That was for being a git," he bit out, his eyes a dangerous amber.

Keela and Molly were smiling goofily, the red-heads cheek pressed to Archie's shoulder as she watched the exchange. Beside her, Archie looked thoroughly unenthused but Clara just assumed that was his natural expression whenever he was in the presence of the twins.

"We'll be going, Harry," Cedric broke in, looking a little dejected from the visit. Clara assumed that it came from his general feelings toward the game. While he wasn't the type to dwell on unnecessary things for too long, he was in the habit of replaying events until he had beat himself up about it an appropriate amount. Clara estimated that his sulking would last for a night. "Hopefully, we can redo this next year under better circumstances."

Clara waved to the Gryffindor team, giving Angelina a smile as the girl flashed her a crooked smile and turned to leave.

"Clara," a voice called out and she turned to find Fred jogging after her, his lips pulled into a half-smile. "I just wanted to apologize for what Ron said. He can be a right git when he wants to be."

Clara's brows furrowed. It was nice that Fred was talking to her but a bit unexpected. Behind her, Keela and Molly had paused at the door, waiting expectantly. Clara couldn't remember the last time that Fred had searched her out without his brother. In fact, she couldn't rightly recall any one-on-one conversation with him. She grimaced. Did that say something about her one-sided affection for George or what?

"It's alright," Clara said cautiously. Her eyes flicked uncertainly to just around Fred's side, catching George's rigid form, his eyes narrowed on where they stood. He looked like he was tied to the ground, watching something unfold that he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to. "It's not like those dementors came and asked Harry for tea. I probably phrased what I was trying to say wrong."

Fred's eyes crinkled, a low laugh escaping him. He was just as tall as his brother, Clara realized as she craned her neck to meet his eyes. Still… there was something different in the way that he carried himself - maybe a bit more arrogance? Well, both of them _were_ arrogant.

"I actually came over to talk to you about our bet," he said with a playful grin. Clara's eyes widened, her mind spinning. Did she have a bet with Fred? No. She had barely even spoken to him. The only bet that she had was with George. Could she have mistaken George for Fred?

Clara sniffed, leaning a bit closer to the twin, watching as his eyes widened a little. No. Even under the layer of mud and sweat, Clara caught the foreign whiff of sugar and something spicey. That wasn't how George smelled. And more than that, it just didn't _feel_ like him. There was something stiff and unfamiliar about their conversation - nothing like talking to George. She couldn't entirely explain it.

"What bet do you mean?" she asked suspiciously. Her eyes narrowed on his face as he gave a charming smile.

"You know - the one we made before I went back out on the field," he said with an amiable grin.

Her eyes narrowed further. "Fred, I know your not George."

The amber-eyed wizard blinked, taken aback. "Yeah. I am. You don't even know who I am?"

"Fred," Clara warned, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Some friend you are," he huffed, mustering up an enormous amount of bravado as he continued. "Lucky for you I'm willing to let this slide-"

"George!" Clara called, leaning around the side of Fred so that she could catch sight of George. A smile broke across the beater's face, the tension that had been stiffening his muscles melting away.

"See?" Fred continued on, stubbornly. "There you go. Can't believe it took you that long to figure it out-"

"Ah, you might as well stop, Fred," George cut in, throwing an arm around his twin's shoulder. A giant grin split George's face, his eyes gleaming with joy.

Clara had no clue what was going on.

"What's this all about?" Clara huffed, eyeing the two suspiciously.

"Ah nothin', Clara love," George bubbled, smirking.

"Just a fun little game-" Fred said airily.

"Experiment," George cut him off.

"That we like to play-" Fred finished with a grin.

"Uuuuuhhh hhhhhhhuuuuuuuhhhh," the small, French witch said slowly, clearly unconvinced. "Well, even though it's been a pure delight being a part of your... _experiment_... I have to go." Clara gave the two a curt nod, turning for the door. "I'll see you in Defense."

"Clara love - Clara darling, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," a firm voice called, reaching her just as she neared the double doors to the infirmary. This time it was George who had followed her, a goofy smile splitting his face. His eyes twinkled as he crowded her against the door, leaning forward until they were mere centimeters from each other. "I'll be going to the kitchen tomorrow night. We'll meet in front of the fruit basket painting at midnight."

Clara blinked, taken aback as he slowly backed away, heading back to Harry's cot. "George, you don't have to-"

"A bets a bet," he called. "Meet you at midnight."

For a moment, Clara stared after him, her mouth moving without a word escaping. Finally deciding that going after him and telling him that the bet was off would be a waste of time, she slipped from the infirmary, make her way to an alcove where her classmates were waiting.

Cedric and Archie were all but asleep, tucked into the corner with glazed expressions on their faces. The aftermath of the match had obviously worn them out. Keela's head tipped back as she turned to the smaller witch. "What was that about?"

Clara's mind reeled, searching for words. "I...have no clue."

A harsh caw broke through the hallway followed by something of impressive weight thumping down onto Clara's skull (the witch giving a responding yelp) and then rolling to the ground.

"That bloody owl," Clara hissed, stooping to retrieve the package as her other hand rubbed at her head. "Why does he always have to drop it on my head?"

A silvery box rested in her grip, the material slightly damp from the flight here. It was a long, slim rectangular package with a glittering, purple ribbon laced around it.

"Oh my Merlin," Molly breathed, her eyes giddy.

Keela blinked owlishly down at it. "Is that-?"

Glee and trepidation burst through Clara at once, her fingers moving nervously along the edge of the box. She gulped. "My wand."

* * *

_Hey, my little cinnamon buns! So I know things are a little crazy right now with this virus but I just wanted to emphasize the point of coming back to the things that we love and just not letting the fear and uncertainty ruin everyday life. We still have so much to be thankful for and I for one, count you guys among those numbers._

_So yeah, I hope that this chapter brightens your day._


	16. Remedial Magic

Professor Dumbledore didn't seem in the habit of wasting any time. It was that quality that Clara blamed as she slipped into the potions room just a week after her wands arrival and only hours before her midnight rendezvous with a set of troublemaking twins.

Dumbledore had known almost immediately that Clara had received her wand and therefore it had come as a morbid surprise when she had crept into her room to find a note sealed with the Hogwarts sigil dictating the time and location of her lessons.

"'Ello, Clara," an amiable voice greeted her as she tried to sidestep the swell of students trying to hurry to the Great Hall for what Clara assumed was going to be a wonderful meal.

The house-elves that resided in the kitchen always made lavish meals with roasted meat and hearty soups when snow started to blanket the school. Unfortunately, for the next few months until the end of school, Clara would be missing out on these such lunches for three days each week. In all honesty, Professor Dumbledore had given her only two options: attend "remedial magic" after the last class of the day or give up her free periods. She had quickly countered with her own solution.

"Oh, hello, Harry," Clara murmured distractedly. In all honesty, when she had offered the trade of her lunch periods, she had been sitting in Dumbledores office on a very full stomach (that night there had been pumpkin seed soup; one of Clara's favorites.) Now with the impending class with Professor Snape, her stomach growling and her shoes nearly soaked through with snow, she felt very, very unprepared.

"What are you doing here?" The French witch was rather surprised that Harry had stopped to talk to her. Nearly all of the Gryffindor quidditch players had somehow or another heard that she had enchanted the Hufflepuff brooms. On more than one occasion, she had nearly slammed into a wall when they had "accidentally" bumped into her in the hallways. In fact, just a moment ago, Alicia Spinnet had something along the lines of: "You filthy little cheat."

"Um," Clara floundered, trying to regain her train of thought. Just across the hall, she caught sight of Hermione, her face white with agitation as she gathered her books, her fingers toying with what looked to be a miniature hourglass on a gold chain. "Remedial potions classes."

Ron snorted from his place just behind the ebony-haired boy. "Good look with that one. He's in a right foul mood today."

"Nearly chopped Neville's head off when he said that Jobberknoll feathers would make good quills" Ron chuckled, shaking his head.

Clara winced. It _would_ be an incredible waste of feathers to use Jobberknoll feathers to scribble down your grocery lists and what have you. Not only was the fluff used in memory potions but the whole of the feather could be used in the creation of truth serum.

Still, Clara winced, growing more and more aware of the fact that she was about to be trapped in a room with that man for an hour and a half.

"But I'm sure he'll be fine with you, Clara," Harry hurried to say, giving her a half-hearted smile. Somewhere along the line Hermione had slipped past them and run off to her next period since Clara didn't see her anymore. Odd. She hadn't passed by her.

"Yeah," Ron said with an unconvincing nod. "George and Fred like you like you've been their mate since they were babes and they don't hardly like anyone. Not really. So Snape's sure to...um, like? Like you."

He ended that sentence on a twitchy gulp, his adams apple bobbing nervously as he gave a small nod. Briefly, his eyes flicked to Harry, a silent conversation passing between the two before Harry turned around with a stiff smile.

"You're a joy, Clara," Harry said but his eyes were moving from her to the back door to the back potions area with a sort of pitying air. "No one could hate you."

Clara was thoroughly unconvinced. Not only was she sure that Professor Snape could find it within himself to dredge up some form of aggression towards her; she was also sure that it was all too easy to hate her. Given the last day or two had been made up of Gryffindor threatening to enchant her broomstick into a tree, she was more than confident that hating her might be the easiest goal to set for someone.

Still, she forced a wobbly smile. "Thank you… Well, if you'll excuse me…"

Sidestepping the pair, she made her way to a tiny, wooden door just behind the chalkboard which had been magicked to clean itself once classes were through. Subsequently, it also sprayed her down with a fine layer of chalk dust which in turn made her stutter and ram her hip into the nearby table. Harry and Ron both winced as she quickly regained herself with a volley of curses in French and pushed her way into the tiny back room with as much dignity as she could muster.

"Yikes," Ron whispered, watching the door close behind her. "My brother's going to have a mess on his hands tonight."

Harry stared at his friend. "I heard they weren't dating."

Ron blinked. "Oh… Think she'll go out with me then?"

Harry rolled his eyes, turning to leave.

Professor Snape barely even moved when Clara entered the room. In his long black robes, his shoulders hunched in, he looked more like a ghoul than a wizard. For a moment, she stood in awkward silence as she continued through the rows of butterfly dust and mermaid's scales and on and on and on. The stone walls in this backroom had been fitted with a wooden bookcase that held so many different ingredients that Clara's head spun with the possibilities. He could make everything under the sun with this stock. He even had some dust of nightmare just sitting in a jar, glimmering darkly against the low light.

"Professor Dumbledore has made the unfortunate decision to train you since your incompetent parents apparently decided to lock your magic up like you were a wild animal ready to maul the whole of the wizarding world," he said slowly, snapping the ledger in his hands shut and whirling around so quickly that Clara resisted the urge to jump. The box in her hands shook as she jerked, sending the heavy wand inside rolling around. His eyes narrowed at the action like he detested her open show of weakness. "What material is your new wand made of?"

Clara blinked, tearing her gaze away from the wolfsbane that was shredded on the worktable. The cauldron next to it held water collected from beneath a full moon by the light fog drifting from its boiling surface. There was only one potion that used the full petals of aconite along with that form of water.

"I-I haven't opened it yet…" She tore her eyes from the bubbling potion, debating for a moment whether she should mention it or not. "Why are you making Wolfsbane potion? It will rot with the next full moon."

For a moment, actual surprise flashed across the Professor's face before a sneer curled his lips. "I wasn't under the impression that I would be teaching a snoop as well as a magically incompetent witch." His eyes flashed as he threw a lid over the cauldron, making Clara bite her lip.

She couldn't help herself. He would ruin it.

"You know you can't leave it covered-"

"For more than ten minutes. Yes. I know, Miss Deschamp," Snape seethed, his eyes murderous as he scooped the remaining aconite into a glass bottle. "Get out your wand before I toss you out."

"I - Yes, sir," she said, deciding against mentioning that keeping the potion covered at all would make it less potent for the user. Wolfsbane potion was primarily used for those who had had the misfortune of being bitten by a werewolf and wanted to resist the pull of their lycan form. Keeping it open to the open air - particularly in a location that humans inhabited - was key to keeping in control of the human part of their mind. But from the venomous way that Snape had said her name a moment ago, Clara was under the impression that mentioning this would quickly earn her detention or worse - a complete dismissal for the day.

There was no letter that came with the box, only a lovely swath of purple silk and the smooth beginning of a wand hilt. Before Clara could catch more than the flash of the white and purple of alyssum petals hardened in some sort of resin, Professor Snape had snatched it from her, turning away while twisting the wand this way and that.

"Alyssum petals for - what is that -" The next words that he said were spoken in a tone of utter disgust. " _Keeping the peace and staying true to oneself_. What utterly ludicrous - frivolous - And the spine of a pegasus for divine guidance." The snort that Snape gave was enough to make Clara flush with embarrassment. "And finally the core -" Snape stilled as he ran his own wand over the smooth, ivory expanse of the tip of her wand, his brows furrowing. His gaze snapped to Clara for a moment before he ran his wand further down to the resin hilt, muttering slightly. "Well, isn't that… _interesting_." The way that he said it made her think that he was more inclined to use the word disturbing.

Frowning, Snape snapped her wand back to her, his movements clipped. "It seems that the core is made with banshee hair." Clara flinched, knowing exactly what the hair of such a creature meant. The nails of a banshee could be used in nightmare potions and the saliva could be stirred into a tonic that would allow for the reversal of fate - unwinding a course of events that was set to take place. Powerful… and incredibly dark. Death is what the hair of a banshee would allow for. Snape's eyes were critical as they ran over the pale witch. "All rainbows and divine light up until you peel back the exterior and then there is nothing but death, it seems."

"Odd," Clara said uneasily, her hands growing clammy as they clutched at the thin wand. Just at the base, there was a small inscription. Her fingers ran over it again, her brows furrowing.

Snape's eyes saw everything, his fingers working at his own wand in silent contemplation. "Isolt Sayre. That is who made that wand that you hold in your hands. The inscription at the base is her initials and her husband, John Steward. A contradictory wand. And a very powerful one." He took a deep breath, pacing to the other side of the room. "This wand was made in the 1600s more than likely… Your family must have a very large influence."

Clara hadn't heard the name Isolt Sayre for a very long time and at that, only in her history lessons. An Irish-born witch, she was from a pureblood family and eventually escaped to what now is known as America where she married a muggle. Together, her husband and she opened a school for witches, making their own wands for the children that attended. It had to have taken a lot of string-pulling and a lot of money to have acquired this wand. Which made Clara severely uneasy.

"That, however, is neither here nor there at the moment," Snape drawled, his face smoothing out as he whirled to face me. "Cast a spell and we'll see if you're still utterly incompetent or just partially so."

Clara shifted uncertainly, glancing around at all the fragile potion vails. "Are you certain?"

"Miss Deschamp, do you think I'm in the habit of making requests?" For a tense moment, they both stared at each other. In all honesty, if it wasn't for the plethora of potions ingredients in the room then she would be more than happy to cast a spell and let loose whatever misfortune it brought. However, Clara had caught the glitter of unicorn blood in a vial. She definitely wasn't willing to risk that. With a sigh, Snape let out a barely concealed snarl and waved his wand almost dismissively. " _Obice_. There."

It was a pathetic excuse for a protection spell but it seemed to be all that Clara was going to get out of him. Taking a breath, Clara raised her wand, giving it a short flick and a twist.

" _Verbera ven_ -" Clara let out a short scream, jerking back as the milky barrier around them burst like a milk bubble bursting and the vails gave identical shrieks of cracking glass.

"I seeeee," Professor Snape said slowly, frowning around the room at the nearly broken glasses as he ran an angry hand over the shredded front of his robes, his hair a riot of oily black hair. "Was that a full force spell?"

"N-no," Clara stammered, twisting her wand through her fingers. Emotions were the cornerstone of all magic. If you held back in a spell, your magic would automatically replicate that emotion. Most witches and wizards only felt this kind of reaction when casting in serious situations when the spells needed that extra burst. To have this much of a reaction with Clara's obvious aversion towards spell casting… Clara shrunk back, terror tightening her gut.

"Then a bit more protection might be needed," Snape said almost casually, snapping around and beginning to chant methodically away as he put a stronger barrier in front of the potion ingredients. Hesitantly, Clara raised her wand, unsure if he wanted her to help or- Ebony eyes whipped to hers. "That will not be necessary, Deschamp."

* * *

_Ah, the days are starting to go by slower and slower! The first week was cool but I'm the type of person that needs to get out and run and do work and kind of scrunch my time to feel comfortable. IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY, GUYS!_

_How are you guys doing? What are you doing to pass the time? I feel a bit like that show on netflix where you're put in a room and they drop you off a box of crayons and some coloring books to get you by. It's like... The Circle? Is that right? Anyway, leave me a review! I love hearing from you guys._


	17. Silver-tongued and Sadistic

"You look absolutely awful." Clara blinked groggily across the common area, her sneakers crunching through the fresh grass to the roaring campfire. Molly and Archie were squabbling over a perfectly cooked s'more, fresh from the fire while Keela, Callum and Cedric all fumbled through every worn textbook that they could.

The O.W.L.S. were only a month away and each student was feeling the pressure of the upcoming deadline. Suddenly, dreams were on the line and the future was unnervingly foggy.

"Teatree oil will clear that up," Cedric muttered, his brows furrowing for a moment as he stared dubiously down at an intricate list of ingredients involved in the brewing of Genevieve's Envy. Tired eyes flicked up to scan over her face and the resulting jolt of shock made her stomach drop. "Merlin's beard."

Clara felt something like a knot start to grow in her throat, her hands instinctively coming up to pat down the frizzy madness that her hair had become. Dark circles ringed her tawny eyes, her skin holding a greyish hue that made her freckles seem almost freakishly apparent. Her robes hung limply from her shoulders, her nails uneven and jagged where she had nibbled at them nervously.

Keela's lips pulled slowly up. "Fun lesson with Snape?"

Distractedly, Clara riffled through Cedric's bags, tossing out a comb and some Merlin's Miraculous Oil Slick to finally come across the mirror that she knew that he kept in his bag. "I blew up his Wolfsbane."

"He grows wolfsbane in his office?" Archie muttered, holding his twin at arm's length with a palm to her forehead as he munched happily away at a s'more as she flung insults at him. One happened to be that he was a virgin which he took relatively well, kicking her in the shins.

"No," Clara muttered, trying desperately to flatten her hair as she saw that it had created an odd kind of afro around her head. Unintentional tears pricked her eyes. She needed to look good tonight. Not because George had given her any reason… Well, not that she thought that… She just needed to, dammit! "His potion."

"Weren't you supposed to be in there for learning to master your magic?" Keela hedged, flicking her wand lazily like the tail of a cat. "Ya know? Control?"

"He's the one that didn't put a bloody protection spell around the damn thing," Clara hissed, her cheeks reddening as she whirled to face her group of friends, her hands clenched. Slowly, something like panic and exhaustion hit her all at once and she turned to Cedric, tears blurring her vision as she clenched the mirror tightly in her hand. "Cedric, you have to help. I look atrocious."

"Only a full night's sleep and some serious hair products will get you past this," Cedric replied solemnly, picking at the wild mass of her icy curls as the French witch moaned, her head crashing into his shoulder. "What in the devil's made you want to look so good tonight, anyway? It's just a regular Thursday-"

"Except it's not," Keela cut in slyly, her mismatched eyes gleaming in the firelight. "You have a date."

"Oh, dear," Molly breathed, perking up from her dejected slump beside her brother, who was currently devouring another s'more. Her eyes rounded. "George."

"George Weasley?" Archie choked out, a glob of melted marshmallow jamming somewhere down his throat. Retching, eyes watering, he pounded wildly at his own chest until Callum sighed, giving him a hard enough whack to send s'more chunks flying into the fire.

Fumbling, Clara checked her watch, blinking down owlishly at it. Only 7. But she had a quiz tomorrow in Dark Arts and if she didn't get a few hours of sleep before she went to meet George, she would be utterly useless. But if those hours would make her any less of a monster than maybe…

"You need to go to sleep," Keela said adamantly, shutting her textbook with a loud thunk. "You can't fail that test without failing the class. You're barely holding on as it is."

"I've studied…" Clara defended weakly, earning a few raised brows from her friends.

"I'll send George to wake you up at midnight." Keela's smirk grew mischievous. "Not the human one."

Clara's cheeks flamed, her eyes searching for Cedric almost desperately. Looking slightly guilty, he shook his head. "A good night's sleep is the only thing that'll make you look like a normal witch again."

"But-" Molly took her shoulder, leading her over to the girl's dormitory door, where their dorm guard witch was currently baking a dozen snickerdoodles.

"Should we have told her?" Archie murmured, his stomach beginning to ache from the ten s'mores that he had just shoved down his throat. At seven he had been at a decent level of fullness but then Molly had wanted the one that he just made and he couldn't let that stand.

"About that horrid little rumor her cousin's spreading-" Callum muttered grimly.

"Ssshh," Keela hissed, her eyes murderous.

The flickering light of the campfire made their faces seem hard and shadowy as more Hufflepuffs folded up their blankets and headed off to bed around them.

Cedric's eyes held a sad tilt. "Ah, the whole school already knows about it, Keela." His fingers worked nervously at the corners of his book. "To say that she's a squib-"

"She's not," Keela snarled, her teeth flashing. "Molly and I saw her perform magic at the quidditch game along with the whole Hufflepuff team-"

"I - I actually didn't, Keela," Cedric cut in, his shoulder's slumping miserably. "Maybe one of the other members but most of us were trying to figure out the rest of the game plans-"

"She's not a squib," Keela snapped. "And even if she was, would that really matter-"

"She would get kicked out of Hogwarts," Callum said softly. "And coming from such a family, she would be made an outcast."

"People are already jumping on the train with this one, Keela," Archie whispered urgently, his eyes flicking to where Clara had vanished. "She refuses to use her wand. No one's even seen her perform _cleaning_ spells."

Keela suddenly felt something like a stone lodge in the back of her throat. It was true that Clara had blatantly refused to use her wand for any classes. Frankly, the red-headed witch didn't fully understand why the teachers were accommodating her or how she was even passing. But she knew that Clara at least had the magical capacity to preform small spells.

And she also knew that Delphine Couture was a vile, horrendous creature that could barely shove food down her throat from all the bullshit that was being forced out of her mouth at any given moment.

"Clara isn't a squib," she said with such finality that all of the boys beside her shifted in discomfort.

Archie was the only one to break the silence, his eyes searching out Keela's. " _We_ know that but right now the rest of the school is about to get some pitchforks and torches and start asking for magical proof."

Keela stayed quiet. Even though she didn't want to admit it, she knew that he was right. And if Delphine wasn't such a vindictive little viper than she might have been impressed by the amount of support that this rumor had garnered.

Far from any of their imaginations, across the school, Delphine Couture was currently talking in vivid detail about her cousin, a sadistic sort of joy squeezing at her heart as the gathered hog-podge of witches gave outraged gasps.

Because in fact, there were far worse things than being called useless or a squib. Things that had muddied the waters of Clara's family for generations. And currently one of those things happened to be her father's recent job change or her startling appearance at Hogwarts.

"Odd, isn't it?" Delphine muttered, nonchalantly pushing a chunk of wavy hair behind her ear. "Especially with our cousin's recent escape from Azkaban..."

A pale boy named Kenneth Towler's eyes narrowed, his lips slackening. "Do you mean that she's related to the Blacks?"

Delphine's lips curled, the glee almost pushing her over into a fit of giggles. Discreetly, she turned, placing a dainty hand over her lips. "I shouldn't have said that."

* * *

_Hey guys! Another chapter down. Currently, trying to get through The Starless Sea but I'm a little dense when it comes to symbolism and dreamy kinds of tales so I am st-rug-al-ing, honey. How's the reading going for ya'll?_


	18. A Night of Secrets

It surprised Clara how easily her body slipped into sleep when she had closed the curtains of her bed area and slipped off her shoes on the worn yellow mat beside her bed. Once she had entered the quiet warmth of her dorm, the fire in the center crackling softly and the stars casting a dim sparkle onto her bed, it had taken every ounce of strength (and one Molly Vansteen) to help her get undressed and into her sweater and pajama bottoms.

After she had slipped into the dense mass of her unmade bed, she had been lost to the world, a ship bobbing in the dark ocean. Vaguely she remembered Molly leaning over her to open the window above her bed, muttering about all the ways that she would need to pay her back. Apparently, their friendship had progressed to the point where every favor came with a fee.

" _Descendez_ ," she mumbled, rolling deeper into the covers as a ball of feathers and talons descended upon her from above. At the moment, a midnight date was the last thing on her mind. In fact, it wasn't even there either. Thoughts about handsome redheads had drifted away with the last bit of Snape's horrible lessons. Nerve-racking things should never follow you to bed.

George gave an angry hoot, his fool body weight landing on her stomach.

" _Tu encrasses peu_ -" Clara let out a short gasp, her eyes finally finding the ugly, cat clock that was currently glinting down at her, it's plastic tail swishing this way and that. "Oh my god."

Clara's knee slammed into her desk chair, quils and ink splattering and crashing to the floor as she leaped out of bed. It was five minutes past midnight. _Past_! George gave a self-satisfied chirp, his beady eyes glinting down at the fumbling chaos that was taking place in her alcove. In all honesty, after spending ten minutes trying to gently nudge her awake (at the request of Molly, of course) and then ten more minutes trying to pinch her into the living and then finally the last fifteen minutes of pure hell in which he had been batted around like someone's old shoe… Well, seeing the witch yelping as she tried desperately to comb her curls into anything but a frizz while shoving a toothbrush into her mouth without water was a welcome course of events.

"I'm late," Clara breathed, spitting out the dry, frothy mess of toothpaste into the basin by her bed. Panic was starting to make her mind go numb. George said he would be waiting _by_ midnight. There wasn't any time to do more than throw on the red and gold scarf draped over the coat rack beside her bed.

Clara Deschamp felt a nervous ticking in her chest as she slipped past the curtains of her room and through her dorm room to the common area. The quiet flicker of the flames of both the campfire and library area cast the darkened barrel entrance in quiet light. Slumped in a chair beside a pile of books, Callum had taken off his glasses, the redness in his nose making it all too apparent that even situated beside the fire, he was cold.

"Stupid boy," Clara seethed, hurrying over to toss a blanket over his sleeping form before sliding into the barrel and crawling as quickly as possible to the entrance. Muffled voice filtered through the wooden door as she got closer and closer, the moss under her warm and reassuring, the path cast in flickering fairy light.

"Oh stop, please." That was definitely Fred's voice, his tone almost bored. "She'll be here in no time-"

"She was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago." George's voice was hushed but angry. Clara felt a pang of guilt, her knees and hands aching as she scuttled along a bit quicker, the scarf at her neck dragging along and getting tangled at her knees, jerking at her neck like a collar.

Fred's voice was nearer, a sly lilt to it that made Clara think that he might be smirking. "Well, did it ever occur to her that maybe this meeting wasn't as important to _her_ as it was to _you_?"

Clara's fingers reached out, ready to push as she neared the door.

"You're a real git, you know that?"

The barrel entrance swung open as Clara reached out to nudge it, making her careen forward into air. The jarring feeling of slamming face-first into the frigid tile of the corridor floor forced a sharp squeal from her throat as Clara saw stars.

"Bloody hell!" Fred exclaimed, his eyes wide as he watched the tiny witch blink around dizzily. Pain bloomed from the reddening mark on her chin, her teeth aching along with it.

George sprang forward, his hands reaching out to right Clara with a swiftness that made the French witchs' head spin a second time. His eyes were crinkled with worry, his thumbs running across her cheeks. "Merlin, Clara. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I-I thought I was late," Clara wheezed, still slightly winded from the crawling as well as her eventual fall from the barrel. And perhaps a little bit of something else since George's face was so close to hers. Flustered and blushing, she continued. "I mean, I was _\- am_ late. I woke up… well, I was so tired, you see… I'm sorry."

George wasn't even listening, his hand pressing back the fluff of her hair and tilting her face this way and that. Behind him, Fred let out a howl of laughter, clutching his side as he leaned against the wall. "Why the hell would they put the barrel so high off the ground? Don't they know that Hufflepuff's are a clumsy lot?"

"She just fell!" Fred giggled, clutching his stomach. Vaguely, she thought that he was wiping away tears as he brought a hand up to his eyes. "She literally just fell on her face."

George snapped around, his teeth bared in a snarl, caramel eyes glinting in the low light. "Will you keep your voice down, you hyena? Do you think Filch is deaf as well as dumb?" His face softened as he turned back to her, rubbing a hand down her arm. "Does anything hurt? Your chin looks like a cherry. Do we need to take you to the infirmary?"

"Of course not," she murmured, frowning at him as he tilted her head up to get a closer look at the reddening area. "I'm not a little, glass doll, you know? I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can," George murmured, his smile softening. Slowly, his hands dropped away from her face. "As long as I wrap you in bubble wrap."

The way that he was looking at her… Clara glanced away, fiddling with the thick scarf around her neck. He made her feel bared, vulnerable in a way that she wasn't familiar with. Her cheeks heated as he tipped his head to the side, his eyes searching, curious. Her stomach did a summersault, her breath burning. Suddenly, she realized that he was crouching in front of her, his body nearly surrounding her as he leaned down a bit more, trying to catch her eyes.

"Oh, yuck," Fred drawled, sobering as he stared across the hall at them. "If I had known I would have to stare at you two making goo-goo eyes at each other than I would have continued that make-out session with Ange-"

"Sexual harassment _and_ assault, Fred?" George cut him off, standing up swiftly with a hard glare in his twin's direction. "Really, how low can you sink?"

Clara blinked up at the rather imposing figure that George made as he hovered above her, his attention firmly on Fred. Who was turning a rather dashing shade of red, shuffling from foot to foot.

"You know for a fact that she-"

"Is one comment away from reporting you as a stalker?" George muttered blandly, scooping Clara up with a steady hand under each arm like she weighed as much as a pile of cupcakes. "Yes, Freddie. I've heard."

"No, she doesn't," Fred snapped, his ears going bright red as he glared at his brother. A flicker of doubt danced across his eyes. "She doesn't, does she?"

Clara flicked a glance between the two, following slowly behind the tall red-head as he made his way over to his brother. The silence stretched on for a moment too long, making her stomach twist as she eyed the agonized expression on Fred's face. Half-heartedly, she chimed in. "I think that she thinks your absolutely lovely, Fred."

Dejectedly, his eyes flicked to her. "Thanks, Clara. You're a peach."

But his gaze quickly went back to his brother, waiting as George continued his silent torture.

After a long, agonizing moment, George's expression relented. "She's absolutely in love with you, Fred. You dolt."

A noticeable breath left his body, something like relief mellowing out his complexion. Puffing up, Fred straightened his shirt, grinning. "'Course she does. Absolutely besotted with me, the poor girl. Just trying to make you admit it, old boy."

George's eyes rolled heavenward before flicking to the side to meet Clara's, his expression one of long-suffering, like a man who had heard the same story for the past fifteen years of his life and was still forced to endure it on a daily basis. Shaking his head, he quickly changed topics.

"A deals a deal, Clara love," George said, changing the subject with a mischievous little smirk as he leaned forward to wiggle his fingers along the shiny oil painting of the pear in a rather large, rather dull fruit bowl. With a shrill giggle and a jerk, the painting swung out, almost hitting Fred in the face to reveal the warmth of the kitchen inside.

The familiar sight and smell of the kitchen burst to life in front of Clara as she hopped through the hole and into the great expanse of the kitchen. House-elves skittered here and there, picking up pots and pans to start in on the inevitable chore of breakfast or a rag to clean some common room or dorm or another. More than once, Clara had caught one of them trying to take her dirty clothes and clean them.

"Miss Clara!" came a familiar squeak, followed by the general commotion of the gathered house-elves as they clustered around George, Fred, and Clara excitedly.

In truth, Clara hadn't been to the kitchens in quite a while, a fact that made her feel immensely guilty. In those weeks that she had thrown herself into isolation, the house-elves had been the only friends that she had.

"Oh, Danby," Clara exclaimed, patting his head as the house-elf skittered around her. "How have you been?"

"Oh miss, no need to ask about Danby," the little house-elf said, his eyes wide and his bat-like ears twitching as if in embarrassment.

"Mister Weasley, yous look more handsome by the day," one of the other house-elves named Geely giggled, scuffing her feet as she stared up at the twins.

"Too thin," a huffy elf named Tinny muttered, scuttling off to the roaring line of ovens and stoves to fire up a kettle and more than likely serve the three a meal that was far too large for them.

Clara's eyes wandered to the mismatched scarves and socks that the elves had, her stomach knotting. In the winter, Hogwarts got very cold and even house-elves felt the chill when they were performing their rounds. In theory, giving elves clothes was rather tricky. Clara had learned early on that any mention of freedom was frowned upon in Hogwarts. It was an odd sentiment to Clara - one that her mortal brain couldn't wrap itself around.

To actively fight against the right to do as one pleased, to have no master… Clara still struggled with it. But perhaps in a couple of years...well, perhaps things would change.

At the moment, Clara had switched her intent to possibly liberate the house-elves into one that required a little less social change and that didn't hurt them. If they wanted to stay here, with Hogwarts as their master - if they were happy with that then Clara wasn't going to pressure them. For now, she would simply give them her socks and scarves with the express order that they were not with the intent to free but merely for warmth and comfort.

Perhaps in a year or two, she could do something more - talk Dumbledore into allowing them jobs or board and food in exchange for their services.

"Your doing?" George questioned softly, his chin tipping toward a Geely, the scarf dragging behind her as she hurried to and fro. A surprising number of them had taken Clara's clothes (that was only after weeks of insisting that there was no intention behind freeing them and finally only because she had ordered them to with that final clause.) Still, there were more elves that still wore their dirty pillowcases and rags, food splattered across them.

"Yes," Clara sighed, her heart squeezing as Danby flounced over with a tinkling tray of fine china and tea. All three students sat down at one of the large table taking up one side of the kitchen. "I've ran out of socks though. And scarfs now that I think about it."

"So their free now, are they?" Fred mused, helping himself to a tray of miniature pies that Geely brought over with a coy bat of her eyes.

"No," Clara said, her head dropping as she gave a little shake. "No. I'm afraid not."

Just then a loud clatter drew Clara's eyes to the other corner of the room, catching sight of one of the elves as they scuttled about to try and collect a series of plates that had crashed to the ground.

"Do you ever notice that when we enter rooms, things break?" Fred said, his face pulled into an expression of quiet contemplation as he shoved a whole sandwich into his mouth.

George nodded, looking slightly bored as he poured himself some tea. "Yeah but that's usually because we're the ones who break it."

"Hmm," Fred contemplated, taking a dainty sip from a small, china teacup. Finally, his head whipped around, his eyes lighting up with a ferocity that startled Clara from where she shooing George away from trying to pile another cookie onto her plate. His hand slapped playfully at hers as he slipped a chocolate chip one in with the lemon lavender that the house elves had grown used to serving her. "We hear that you've been mucking about with some Slytherins, Clara darling, Clara love."

"Don't call her that," George snarled, his voice low and feral and so angry that for a moment even Fred seemed to be taken aback. Clara blinked, staring across the table as the cloudy expression cleared from George's eyes, a look of embarrassment crossing his face as he blinked and looked away. "I-I mean that she hates it when I call her that. She doesn't like it. It's a stupid nickname."

Fred blinked, his face showing the slow turning in his mind. "Riiiiggghhhhtt."

Clara bit down on the words that she wanted to say, turning back to Fred. Her chest tightened. When George had given her a nickname… it had been nice. It had made her feel warm and coddled. _Special_ , a small voice piped up. When had he thought that she had disliked that?

Trying to push away the crushing feeling of disappointment that was starting to tighten around her, she turned her attention back to Fred's original question.

"I have a cousin in Slytherin if that's what you mean," Clara started out hesitantly, feeling something like morbid dread slithering through her.

It wasn't, particularly that she had been hiding her association with Delphine… Well, the more that she thought about that, the more that it seemed that - yes. She had been. When had it been a good time to bring up- Well, that was a stupid question too. She had gone as far as to make that wager directly concerning her. That would have been more than a good enough time to bring it up. And then she hadn't…

So maybe in a roundabout way she was still running desperately from the morbid and often humiliating legacy that her ancestors had left for her.

But from the incredulous way that both of them were currently looking across the table at her… Clara winced.

"Are you telling us that you've had a relative in Hogwarts this whole time and we didn't even know?" George murmured and there was something in his expression that looked almost hurt.

"It's almost the end of the year, Deschamp!" Fred barked, his brows going towards his hairline.

"We're not exactly closer," Clara hedged, fidgeting with the cookies on her plate.

"Who is it?" George's eyes swirled like amber being melted down in the crackling light of the fireplace. Clara hadn't noticed it at first but his hair was lightly disheveled, the longish strands sticking out as if he had just rolled out of bed. Clara blushed. Now she was thinking about him in bed.

"D-Delphine. Delphine Couture." Almost instinctively, she leaned away from the two, bracing for their reactions.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," they both breathed, their eyes connecting for a short, unreadable moment. Fred's eyes narrowed on his brother's now-pale face.

"Didn't you-?" he started, stopping with a sympathetic wince as George gave a growl.

"Let's not talk about that," he bit out, his eyes holding a warning that Clara didn't completely understand.

"Later," Fred promised grimly before they were both turning back to Clara.

"When were you going to-?"

"How the hell is someone as sweet as you related to that treacherous harpy-?"

"Through blood only," Clara cut him off, well aware of her cousin's less than stellar personality. Her eyes turned to George who was eying her almost warily. She flinched. It was the first time that she had seen such a guarded expression on his face. She struggled to find the words to make it better. "I didn't know how to tell you. My relation to the… the Black family is...bad. My father was all but banished from the family when he married my mother and refused to keep house-elves. Things became… ugly when You-Know-Who came into power."

George's face was unreadable, his expression drawn. Fred's eyes flicked between us for an uncomfortable, silent moment before he jumped up. "Bathroom…" he muttered hurriedly before taking off in the general direction of the darkest corner. Clara knew for a fact that while there was a bathroom, it was specifically made for house-elves which meant that it would be too small for the likes of him.

For a moment, they sat in awkward silence, Clara fiddling with anything that she could get her hands onto and George staring across the table in stormy silence.

"I don't get you, Clara," George murmured finally, his voice low and dark. Clara's eyes flicked up to meet his, the stillness there making her flustered. It was an expression of undivided attention - one that made Clara feel vulnerable, like a mouse at the table with a lion. "You seem so sweet and innocent and...and open one moment and then - then something happens - windows break or that ghastly boggart-" His face paled for a moment, the firelight casting shadows. "Or tonight with your cousin… I want to be your friend, Clara but it's almost like you want the opposite."

Her heart lurched, her windpipe closing up. "No!" The word popped out too loud, echoing around the kitchen. George's eyes ran over her face, considering. "No. George, I - That's not at all what I want. Being your friend - I _love_ being with you. You make me so - so happy."

Something in his expression shifted, his eyes darkening for a moment as Clara reached out a pleading hand across the table, her fingertips skimming over where his hands were clenched tightly on the table. In the low light, his eyes flicked to her lips, his adams apple bobbing. Clara blushed, feeling all at once like she had revealed something very intimate about herself, something more than an admission of how much she wanted to be his friend, to just keep him close to her.

"I'll - I promise I won't keep any secrets from now on," she stuttered out haltingly, flinching at the way that that made her feel. Was this what having true friends meant? Baring every part of her life for their inspection? But having these nasty surprises pop up and make him look at her like that was far worse. She gave him a strained smile. "Ask me anything."

For a moment, his eyes ran over her face, considering. "You know you don't have to do this."

Clara shook her head, her white hair poofing out around her. "I want to."

There was a brief pause, one filled with George looking at her in an unabashedly ravenous way, his eyes licking along her face like he could reach across the table and yank her to his lips. Because it was unfair how cute she was being. It was unfair that she got to sit across that table with his scarf on, staring up at him like she would do anything in the world to make him be her friend. Which was absurd because he had been breaking his back trying to catch her at every corner since she had first fallen into his lap on that train. God, she was just so fucking cute.

And the worst part was that she didn't even know it. Didn't even know how much he wanted to knot her hair around his fingers and make her squeak like a little mouse. See her eyes widen as he bit her lip or better made her - No. No. He wouldn't do any of those things. Because Clara was too innocent for the likes of George Weasley. He wouldn't dirty her. Not until she was ready.

"George?" Merlin, she was still smiling up at him like that. He struggled awake, forcing his eyes back to hers. But Circe that was just as bad. He shook his head.

"Delphine's your cousin?" A stupid question but one that at least would get him back on track.

Clara gave him a curious smile, taking a sip from the tea that was still piping hot. He had gone oddly silent for a moment, his eyes… She resisted the urge to shivered. He'd looked like he was about to jump across the table and devour her whole. Heat burned across her cheeks. She could have just seen it wrong. Yes. That made more sense.

"I'm related to her through my father's side," Clara said, pushing away the quickening of her pulse and that strange heat that was searing her. "When You-Know-Who came to power my family originally fought. My father was a rather accomplished auror and he was respected in our Ministry. But… as the war went on, being related to the Blacks wasn't just embarrassing. It became something...ugly. Something that made people mistrust us. Eventually, they arrested my father-"

George's brows furrowed, outrage marring his features. "That's ridiculous."

Clara gave a wan smile. "It was only for a few months but my mom was scared. She had my sister and I to take care of and no one would even speak to her… With everything that happened with Sirius, I thought that mentioning it would be… dangerous. So my family suggested that I keep it a secret?"

His eyes ran over her for a moment. "Do the other Hufflepuffs know?"

Clara blushed. "My friends - yes."

George let that sink in for a moment, his jaw tightening. "Tell me something that they don't know."

Clara blinked. "W-what?"

His eyes hardened. "Tell me something that your friends don't know. A secret. Something that no one in this school can tell me in the hall one day or mention over breakfast." He didn't say the rest. _Like they're closer to you than I am._

Clara lashes fluttered as she tried to think quickly. "My new wand um the core is made of… Oh damn. No." Clara bit down on her lip. Snape knew about that. And it wasn't all that special anyway. Keela would more than likely know about that within the week. One thing popped to mind but - No. She couldn't - That was horrible but - Clara swallowed, staring into the amber depths of George's eyes. She trusted him, she realized. Trusted him not to hurt her. Not to use what she was about to say to his advantage. The words came easily once she realized that. "My sister - Annabelle - she's - she's sick." His brows furrowed, his lips parting. "She has been for a while. We moved here because my father got a new job - yes. But - but maybe more than that, we moved here so that she could be near her new doctors."

George's hands curled around hers, warm and sure. "I - Clara, I'm so sorry."

A knot in Clara chest loosened a bit, something in saying the words making it easier to breathe. "The boggart that day - that was my sister. My sister and my mother and my father."

George's face went pale, his hands tightening almost painfully around hers. "But they were-"

"Blaming me," Clara finished for him, smiling weakly. "And they should. You see, when I was little, I think… Well, I think I might have cast a spell… I didn't want a sister and so… I think I unleashed something dark. Something bad." Her lip trembled at the admission, deep fear bubbling to the surface. "Ever - ever since then my magic hasn't been right and Annabelle got so sick."

"I've heard about your sister, Clara," George confided softly, his thumbs running slow circles along the back of her hands. "She's a Seer. She's foretold a lot-"

"At the cost of her health and maybe a little bit of her own sanity," Clara cut him off. Her eyes flicked up to his quickly and then back down to their clasped hands. Cold chills prickled along her back, making her shiver. "I wanted to do more than make her disappear after she was born." The words were hard to force out, self-loathing making them shake. "I wanted to dismantle everything that she was."

 _And I did._ That thought haunted through her mind, sink through her like the cold touch of a wet towel.

Silence fell across the table, Clara stuck in the tailspin of her own emotions, her own memories. George's eyes roamed freely across her face, his hands tightening on hers. He could feel the guilt billowing off of her like clouds of smoke from a dying firing. If only he could reach her-

"Am I interrupting?" Fred had returned, his face scrunched up in open anxiety as he eyed the two. He had not, in fact, found the restroom but instead wandered around one of the smaller hallways to the back of the kitchen. This had promptly led him to a broom closet that he had opened and stared into for about fifteen minutes before making his way slowly back to his brother and the girl that he was slowly becoming more and more infatuated with as the days passed. He really should have stayed with Angelina.

Clara's mouth tightened, her skin crawling as she yanked her hands away from George. She had almsot forgotten what an utter mess her life was, thanks to his disarming charm. Thankfully, this conversation had reminded her rather quickly.

Forcing a smile, she stood. "I was actually just about to leave. I had to get up early tomorrow. Thank you for inviting me."

George's face tightened, his shoulders hunching in as his brother eyed him.

"Um, not a problem, Clara," Fred supplied awkwardly, fully aware that he had interrupted and also fully aware that if he was able to sink into the concrete, he would.

" _Bonne nuit,_ " she whispered before scampering quickly through the painting and out into the hallway.

Fred eyed his brother. "Are you going to be a jackass or go after her?"

With a growled curse, George jumped over the table, sprinting out into the hallway as well and leaving Fred to pour himself a new cup of tea with a long-suffering sigh. "I really should have stayed with Angelina."

It had been stupid, Clara had realized rather quickly to tell George about her sister. No one wanted to know about that. Clara herself barely even wanted to acknowledge it.

The French witch thought about all of this as she climbed through the entrance to the kitchen and made her way slowly back to the barrel at the end of the hall.

"Clara!" A clear voice rang through the hall moment before a large hand was grasping her shoulder and spinning her. Caramel eyes stared down at her, serious and slightly angry in their intensity. Clara blinked, taken aback at that intensity. "Listen, I know that maybe I haven't known you for that long - not even a year - but I _know_ you... That's stupid. Let me start over." George took a breath. "You say that you think you cast a spell on your sister and I'm going to tell you that you're wrong." Clara opened her mouth, ready to argue with him but he hushed her. "The person standing in front of me today is the kindest person I've ever met. Merlin, Clara, sometimes I think you're actually a cinnamon bun, you're so sweet." His hands cupped her face, calloused and reassuring, narrowing her field of vision down to his face alone. "When I tell you that you couldn't hurt a fly, what I mean is that you don't have the anger in you to do these horrible things that you've been crucifying yourself for for all these years. I don't believe it."

Tears pricked at Clara's vision, her fingers shaking as they curled around each other. How could he do that? How could he just say those words and make her feel… feel like he had draped a warm blanket around her after she had been out in the rain for hours?

"So I'm not going to take that as one of your secrets," he whispered, his thumbs stroking along the underside of her eyes as his searched hers. "That is some fiction that you made up about yourself when you were little."

"But-" she started, a tear dribbling out before she could stop it.

"No," he breathed, his hands tightening on her face as if he could force his reality into her. Those caramel eyes swirled, strands of hair falling into his face as he leaned down to her. "You. Are. Good."

Clara closed her eyes, letting his heat soak in all around her. In her mind, that small, vindictive voice still chattered, ridiculing her for taking the word of someone who had known her for so short a time. But that voice was tiny, distant.

George leaned forward, his lips brushing along the sensitive skin of her cheek as he murmured softly to her.

In no way, did Clara believe that she was completely innocent in her sister's current state. That burden was one that had been piled upon her for many years and would be hard to take off. But… some of that guilt inside of crumbled away at his words.

Clara drew in a long breath, sniffling as she felt him wipe away another one of her tears, his lips moving gently along her skin, almost reverently. He was so close, Clara realized, his familiar scent making her heart quicken and butterflies dance in her stomach. Slowly, he pulled back, his eyes hazy with an emotion that Clara couldn't exactly pinpoint.

For one second, Clara felt something heated pass between them, her eyes flicking to his lips. Would he-?

"I think you should go to bed now, Clara," George whispered, breaking the moment, his voice rough, almost guttural. Slowly, he let go of her, his hands trailing along her cheek to toy with the red and gold of the scarf around her neck.

She blinked, remembering suddenly who it belonged to. "Do you - do you want it back?"

A small smile played across his lips, his eyes twinkling. "I think it looks better on you."

Clara blushed, thinking of all the looks she had gotten with his red scarf in her gold robes. "It confuses people."

Her breath caught as a few of his fingers grazed along her throat as he toyed with the material. "Let them be confused."

Unwanted, a smile forced its way onto her lips. " _Bonne nuit,_ George."

He smirked as if he sensed the tide of her thoughts, dropping his hands to shove them into the pockets of his pajama bottoms. "Sweet dreams, Clara love."

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_You guys have been amazing with reviews. Seriously, I am so thankful._ _On a separate note, the 90 Day Fiance is out again and I am here for all those catty girls. *pours myself some wine*_


	19. The Mind and Other Cages

_CRASH_!

"Are you an _imbecile_ or do you just delight in destroying everything in your general vicinity?" The snarling, oily voice of Professor Snape gritted out as his latest potion spilled from the now decimated copper pot that had been steeping in his office.

Over the last few remedial magic classes that Clara had attended… how to describe them? Not good would be a well enough start. Complete disasters would have been even better. So horrifically bad, in fact, that now every session ended with Professor Snape grabbing a book and hurling it at the little, French witch's head as she scrambled to get out of the room, a volley of insults following.

Blue liquid as clear and glittering as the merfolks' tears flooded the workbench, turning into sludge as it met the cool surface of the table. Clara gulped, skittering closer to the door as Snape howled out a symphony of curses, lurching toward the mess. She had learned long ago that helping him after such occasions would be fuel to his rage. Not for the first time that evening, she felt an ungodly sort of panic and despair crash through her.

Worse than making no progress at all, she was _devolving_ , each lesson a study in all the ways that her magic had soured. Even with the layers of protective spells around the potions in the circular study, her magic was able to beat through them, flailing about until it finally ended in the destruction of more than one of Snape's prized vials.

"Do you want me-" she started, her hands clammy around her wand as she shuffled a bit closer.

The dark-haired teacher whirled, his hands drenched in blue muck, tomes of potions manuals and ingredients dripping onto his robes as he held them. His teeth seemed to gleam in the dull light of the room, his eyes half-wild as he snarled across the room at the pale witch. "Would I like for you to ruin any more of some of the world's most expensive potions ingredients? _No_ , Miss Deschamp. I would not."

Clara flinched, turning a sickly shade of gray. Her eyes which had once been vibrant had turned a dull honey color, dark circles mooning them. In the past few weeks, there had been a growing many things that had caused her to stay up at night. One of them being the whispers that seemed to follow her through the halls, nipping at her heels as she ate her meals in the dining hall.

On more than one occasion, she had caught Keela cornering a fumbling Slytherin or the occasional Gryffindor. Her face would always be red, seething, her finger jabbing into the thoroughly scandalized student until Archie would have to go over and tug her away. Clara was always left out, an odd separation forming between her friends and herself. Cedric would laugh it off, changing the subject with a deftness that made it all the more apparent that whatever the argument had been… Well, it hadn't been about the weather.

In more than one way, Clara's friends thought that they were protecting her. The rumors had become worse. So bad that people had started to slam into the silver-haired witch in the hallways, giving scornful laughs as she blinked, muttering an apology.

It enraged Keela to no end. _Grow a backbone,_ she would think even as she stormed after the offender, cornering them before snarling violent threats into their faces. _You do that one more time, you filthy little rodent and I'll make your wand into a bow around your dick, you hear me?_ Then Archie would come along, his smile not quite mean but not at all what you would expect from a Hufflepuff chaser and dutifully shuffle Keela away with the parting of _if you come near Deschamp again I'll give her the green light to make your privates into a Christmas tree, mate._

Keela wanted to be angry with Clara. She wanted to shake her and curse at her and ask her why in the world she wouldn't pull out that stupidly frilly wand of hers and _do something_. But she never did. Because deep down she knew that the weirdly innocent way that Clara walked through life was a part of who she was. Because Clara was inherently, unendingly _nice_.

And because there was an almost closeted sort of restraint about the short, frizzy-haired witch. A restraint that made her seem wound too tight to ever lose her calm enough to draw her wand in anger.

A part of Keela was a bit afraid of what would happen if she did.

"Do you delight in growing more and more _incompetent_ each time you step into my office, Miss Deschamp?" The way that Professor Snape said Clara's name made it sound like the worst insult. The wizard's eyes were the darkest stone, hard and unwavering as he stared disdainfully down at Clara's hunched shoulders.

The worst part was that Professor Snape waited for an answer whenever he asked a question that should have been purely rhetorical. Like he was savoring the moment when his victim tried to limp through a conversation.

Clara edged toward the door, her mind begging for mercy. "Yes?"

"Get. Out."

She didn't need to be told twice. Lunging for her bag, she dodged a book that went whizzing right past her ear. Clara had decided to make it a sort of game. She had gotten quite good at ducking and weaving her way out of the study, shuffling a few steps as a volley of books went flying past her before leaping toward the exit.

"Get out, get out, get out, get out," Snape droned. One more book skimmed her shoulder, making her jitter to the side. She was almost to the nob… "Getoutgetoutgetout-"

The final tome hit the closed door with a rattling thud, the force vibrating through Clara's back as she shut the door quickly behind her. The Hufflepuff witch took a long breath, her body giving way to an ache that had started this week. It had been very long since she had used her magic this much. It was exhausting. And apparently her body was growing more and more agitated with the activity if the muscle-deep pain in her back and arms and even her legs meant anything.

"Are you alright?" Clara blinked, startling.

Positioned just at the very edge of the potions classroom stood Harry, his hair it's regular shaggy black mess, his eyes a piercing green. He was rather handsome, she realized. Or at least he would be once he got older. His face still held a bit of the soft edges of childhood even if his eyes and that dainty scar above his brow told a different story.

Tiredly, Clara gave him a smile, pushing from the door to make her way swiftly toward him. She didn't want to remain there any more than he did, it seemed because he followed her. "I would have thought that you would be at lunch. Not many people like to hang around Snape's office."

Harry grimaced, looking to have grown physically ill by the thought. "I would sooner eat my wand." His eyes narrowed, darting down to the cobbled steps of the halls as they drifted along, his mind racing for a moment on the real reasons that he had come. Reasons that he was ashamed to admit, revolved around the rumors he had been hearing for the past week.

After the inevitably disastrous outcome of her remedial classes, she would wander, listless through the halls until the next period hit. In the past weeks, Cedric had taken to stuffing rolls and pieces of ham into his robes, chasing the witch down and listing off all the reasons why keeping a good diet would, in turn, keep a good witch. The truth was that Clara had lost a considerable amount of weight. Her cheekbones had started to jut from a face that used to hold a pixie-esque charm. So Cedric had begun to hoard food and Molly had begun to offer her hot cocoa and smores before bed. On the flip side, Callum had started to make poorly timed remarks about the relation of food to one's magical abilities.

What no one could really comprehend was that Clara was withering away for that exact reason. Maybe, she had been hoping vainly, if she was just this side of weak, her abilities would dwindle too.

Preposterous and misguided but the mind can play dangerous games with a desperate, half-starved soul.

"Actually…" Harry started slowly, his eyes grazing over the ragged edges of Clara's school books - an unfortunate outcome of a student tripping her. His jaw tightened, his adam's apple bobbing as he steeled his nerves. Emerald eyes twinkled from under his glasses, sharpening to a gemlike quietly beneath the lenses. "I came to speak with you… About… the rumors."

Clara's feet stopped, her heart giving a panicked thump. For a moment, she was back in her yard, clutched against her mother, watching as her father was brought to his knees in front of people who were supposed to be his friends. But no - she rallied quickly, her eyes attentive and sad as they focused on the scarred boy in front of her. If anyone deserved to know about her family ties it was him.

"I know-" For a moment, the words got stuck in her throat, a flash of pain lancing through her. She had heard whispers - but that was just it. When people wanted to tie you down with foul words they never said it to your face. It was almost like a game of keep-away once the rumors had started. A game that had been played rather well until this morning when Angela Denelis had snarled down at her: _I know why you came to Hogwarts, you foul, little thing. I know why your father and you were whored out by your own ministry._

From there, it had been a small step to finally peek up from the little corner she had created for herself in Hufflepuff. The world, she realized wasn't made up of her close friends and cheery house colors. It was cold and twisted and had been encroaching upon her for a while now. And she had been fool enough to turn blindly from it. To run. To hide.

"I know what they're saying." The words tumbled over each other. Seeming like the wrong ones. And yet Clara couldn't say anything else. She winced. "I know that they're saying we were escaping to try and fool everyone. Because - because of my father. Because of - of Sirius Black."

Clara's voice dropped to a wavering whisper. It felt wrong to say his name. Like a curse. Like a bad omen.

Harry's face twisted with pain and worse - anger. "You know he killed - he killed my parents."

It sounded like an accusation. Clara flinched beneath it. Her voice was frail when she finally answered. "I know."

A long, tense silence dragged between them, amplified by the wind whistling through the deserted halls. The leaves around Harry's boots skittered, frightened, across the cobbles, and for a moment, Clara imagined herself skittering with them. She would have given anything to be an inanimate object at the moment. Anything to not have to answer for the horrible things her family had done. Because how do you say you're sorry that your relative massacred an entire family? How do you apologize for something that happened before you were even able to comprehend danger or choices?

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Harry finally demanded. Tired of the silence. Tired of everyone's inability to answer his questions. So tired of people telling him how he should feel when all he wanted to do was rage and cry and demand that they answer him.

And here she was - a relative of the man who had turned his parents in to be slaughtered like sheep - and she was speechless, quivering like _he_ was the one who would hurt _her_. Like her own cousin hadn't told the entire school that her father had to this day, pledged himself to the Dark Lord.

"What do you want me to say?" Clara felt something in her stomach tighten and roll. She could have said a variety of things. Maybe the truth - that her family hadn't been a part of the Black legacy for a long while. But wasn't that just an excuse?

Harry's words were tight, his eyes blazing, scorching anger biting through his stomach as he stared down at the frail witch. He hated that she looked so breakable. He hated that he felt like a jerk for demanding anything from her. "I want you to tell me why you've been hanging around my friends and me for the whole school year without ever thinking to mention that you're related to the man that helped murder my parents."

There it was. Clara's stomach lurched, bile rising in the back of her throat as she flinched away. Guilt hit her like a train, rolling over her with a force that knocked her breath from her for a moment. Dazed, she blinked up at Harry. He had grown taller than her since the beginning of the year, a fact that made her all the more aware of anger blazing in his eyes.

She felt very small then, in this foreign country with these foreign people, in a place where her magic had spluttered and wheezed its way into non-existence. Staring up at Harry just then, she felt a spark of loneliness so violent that she almost wilted. In his eyes, she could see the same fury that boiled within her sometimes. The same fury that had crippled her sister and made her fear her magic.

"I…" Cotton clogged her throat. "I liked you and…"

 _George_ , she wanted to say. _I liked George_. But when faced with such undisguised hatred one rarely says the right things. Her words jumbled, rolling and tangling with each other until she couldn't think of any words, just the emotions. Happy, Guilty. Shame. If you can speak in emotions than Clara would have been very eloquent in that moment. She would have made Harry weep. But as it is, you can't speak in emotions and so Clara was left, confused, blinking mutely up at him until he shook his head, looking angry and sad. Because he had wanted her to say something to make him not feel so wretchedly hateful.

"Just…" Suddenly all of that rage whipped away from him, leaving behind the blustering cold of disappointment. "Just stay away from me, okay? I don't…"

He didn't know what to say. Maybe that she looked so pitiful in that moment that he felt like taking it all back. Or maybe that if she stuck around him then he would be at risk of liking the Black family a little more just because of her temperament. And right now, he couldn't have that. Right he needed the anger. He needed it to get him through the horror that had become his waking hours. He would need it when he finally got when hexing distance of Sirius Black.

Mutely, she nodded, watching as his eyes flicked morosely from her to the floor and then back again before he was shoving his hands in his pockets and walking away briskly.

The wind whipped after him, lashing Clara with stinging sweeps. She wanted to run away. Her eyes traveled to the distant darkness of the woods. In France, she had known her way home. Here, she barely knew her way around a common conversation. Trapped. Her skin crawled and tightening making her breath come raggedly.

Against her ribcage, her magic thrashed, crowing against her bones, almost forcing it's way up in a flurry of pain and screaming.

_No._

She swallowed. Forced away the panic. One breath. The torrent inside of her whirled, wailing in the mournful way that only a trapped animal would understand. Two breath. The leaves at the end of the hall, swirled, catching fire. Clara squeezed her eyes shut. Three breaths. _Force it down. Calm. You're calm._

Slowly, her nails unhooked from beneath the skin of her palms. _Calm_.

Blinking, the witch turned and hurried to her next class.

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_Make my day and write a review? Seriously, I don't know if you guys have noticed but things have been pretty rough in the world recently. You'd be cheering me up immensely._


	20. A Warm Place

_I've been kind of struggling with this one lately and I want to say thank you to all the people who have stuck with me and reviewed so diligently because... Well, my confidence sucks. I'll just be honest. I second-guess myself a lot. So when you guys review... I don't want to get sappy so I'll just say that it means a lot to me. Truly._

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"MR. WEASLEY!" Clara's stomach clenched at the familiar name, her fingers biting into the worn straps of her bag as she lingered at the edge of the final turn to the Defense Against the Dark Arts room.

"Kick his arse, Weasley!" That distinctly familiar voice above the roar and fumble of bodies sent Clara skittering around the corner so fast that she almost slammed into a cluster of witches that had gathered around. Clara quickly dodged to the side, pushing between people until she broke the final ring and came face to face with a tangle of limbs. Some of the hall tiles were spattered with what looked to be blood and possibly spittle.

As Clara watched, Fred jerked forward, slamming his forehead into a mousy-looking Gryffindor boy's nose, sending a burst of blood and spit onto his robes. Just a few feet away, George was in much the same position, his big body curled around another red-robed boy, his knuckles raw as he pulled back for another punch. And just across the way, with Keela looming, ominous and vengeful, Archie was rolling, fumbling with another boy, his face screwed tight in concentration and his lip bloody.

"I AM GIVING YOU BOYS UNTIL THE COUNT OF THREE TO GET AWAY FROM EACH OTHER!" Professor Lupin roared, his fingers clenched around his wand as he shoved his way through the cluster of children around the tight circle of fighting boys. At the sudden sight of a wand, a few of the gathered students skittered away while the rest seemed to take a collective step back. "1!"

"YOU FUCKING COWARD!" George snarled, his face so rabid that for a moment Clara couldn't distinguish between the boy who had grabbed hold of her in the hall the day before.

"Better a coward than a BESOTTED WANK!" the boy beneath him snarled, his lip already swelling from an earlier blow.

"2!" Professor Lupin yelled, his eyes taking in the exchange with an almost impassive stare even as his voice and actions threatened vengeance. Over in the corner, Archie let out a ragged grunt, taking a knee to the side in a badly timed move to disengage himself from the other boy. Snarling, he threw himself back down, his knuckles connecting with the boy's cheekbone with a meaty _pop_! " _SEPARATUM_!"

Clara gasped, a good chunk of the students scrambling away as all six boys went hurtling in opposite directions. The mousier boy collided into the sea of witches, sending them tumbling to the ground like pins knocked over by a bowling ball. Against the far wall, Fred and George heaved themselves up, grunting out curses as their eyes zeroed in on their former opponents with the same amount of rage.

"Don't even think about it, Weasleys!" Professor Lupin snarled, his wand swinging smoothly to where they sat and grimacing, face pulled into taut, disdainful lines, the twins stilled. "I don't know what the bloody hell has gotten into any of you-"

"What's gotten into us is that they're a bunch of bewitched trouts who can't think beyond the inside of Deschamps knickers!" the boy with the bloody nose bellowed, his eyes watering, face smeared with a mixture of spittle and dark red.

Clara felt the subtle shift of the people around her, their eyes zeroing in on the girl who for the past week had run neck and neck with Harry Potter in school gossip. Clara could feel the familiar prickle of accusation zeroing in on the white-knuckled way that she was clutching her satchel, the dark, guilty circles ringing her odd eyes. Her strange silver-white hair and tawny eyes had added to the appeal - the vicious rumors fueled by her startling appearance. Rumors usually went in that direction sooner or later - first, it had been in family and now the masses had devolved into a slavering mess over her unusual hair color and eyes.

"Watch your fucking mouth, Bennet!" George snarled, Fred's arms wrapping around his twin's shoulders as the former jerked, looking like he was ready to murder the smaller boy.

"Enough!" Professor Lupin roared, his eyes cold and dark as they swept over the boys. "I don't _care_ why you six have become _animals_ right in front of my classroom. Now get up before I cart you there in a _bubble_ , do you hear me?"

For a moment, none of the boys moved, the thinning crowd swaying from foot to foot in uneasy silence until finally they struggled to their knees, their eyes locked on each other even as they began to shuffle toward the Dumbledore's office.

Clara could feel shame - cold, hard guilt welling up inside of her like the hand of another person, dirty nails digging up from her stomach. Shading George's jaw, she could see the yellowing bruises from another - Clara choked, her nails biting through the top layer of her palms as she took an unsteady step toward him. There were other bruises too, softer like little fingerprints circling his forearms. Heat burned her lids, her mouth moving over a question that she hadn't thought to ask. _Had you been fighting this whole entire week every time someone said something about me?_

Instead all that came out was a half-choked sound, her head craning back as he finally got to her, his brother close behind with Keela and Archie just behind, whispering to each other. "George?"

Familiar caramel eyes snapped to her, the hard surface softening as he gave her a wane smile. His eyes quickly traveled over her face, one hand reaching out to ruffle through her curls. "Hey, Clara love."

 _That was all he had to say?_ She wanted to throw something at him. Currently, the area around his nose was turning a deeper shade of purple, his eyes looking puffy as blood dripped slowly from the exposed meat of his knuckles. And that was all he had to say? Clara's throat tightened around a well of words as his fingers slipped from her hair and he walked tiredly past.

"Your welcome for the free class period," Fred muttered to her out of the side of his mouth, giving her a cheeky wink that hammered home the guilt inside of her.

Her eyes instantly snapped behind him, Keela's arms wrapped around Archie's waist as he slouched into her. The pair gave her identical grins, sheepish and slightly vindicated. "Lovely day," Keela commented innocently and Archie gave a low hum of acknowledgement.

"Miss Deschamp," Professor Lupin called, Clara's head jerking to the side as he gave her a tired stare. His eyes flicked around the assembled students, a indiscernable emotion tightening his face. "Come with us as well."

Clara's heart dropped, her toes curling inside the worn laces of her boots. She could feel all of the color draining from her face as the taller teacher ushered the bruised and bloodied students farther down the corridor.

"Hopefully they'll get rid of her." Clara's shoulders tensed at the hissed voice, the students around her withering like a pile of vipers ready to strike.

Blinking back tears, she ducked her head, feeling the swelling of something angry clawing at her guts. Desperately, she pushed it down, hunching down into herself as she tried to skirt around the sea of witches and wizards. Someone's shoulder slammed into hers sending her wobbling to the side. Her eyes searched desperately between the bodies, catching sight of Professor Lupin as he paused just at the end of the hall.

"Send her back to Beauxbaton," another person seethed and Clara ducked around another pair of students, trying to keep her eyes down, her shoulders up. She just needed to go a bit farther and she would be out of the crowd.

Someone's elbow rammed into her side, taking some of the wind from her as she forced her way past them, the open air of the corridor greeting her. Dazed, she stumbled forward, moving as quickly as she could to where Professor Lupin was waiting.

"Send her back to that invalid sister of hers." Clara stopped, her insides going cold as her cheeks heated. The cobblestone at her feet blurred - not from tears this time, her fingers going skeletal around the straps of her bag.

Someone hit another person behind her, lightly, in gentle reprimand. "Ken."

Her throat tightened. "What?" Ken. Kenneth Towler. Her seatmate in Defence. Her whole world tilted, an odd buzzing like the wings of a dozen nesting bees starting in her lunges. "You know it's true. Her own sister can't even get out of bed. Bet they're keeping her chained in the attic while she vomits up all of those useless prophecies." A mean snort ripped through the hall. "I bet she doesn't even see anything. Probably as useless as her sister just egging people on with whatever flies through her mind."

Clara could see her breath, white and coming quickly in the air. Her mind had gone numb, some part of her clicking off as she turned slowly. Whatever Kenneth Towler said, it made him stop, his eyes widening for a moment before he was doubling down, his lips thinning.

"Take it back," Clara breathed, her fingers trembling on the thin cloth strap. She could feel the air crackling around her ears, charged like the wire inside of a lit bulb.

The student's behind Kenneth straightened, sharks scenting the blood of newly hurt prey. A few gave derisive snorts, eyeing the thin witch with obvious contempt. What could a squib do? The sharp tap of heels down the hall barely pricked Clara's attention, her eyes a ghostly shade of gold. Kenneth snorted. " _What_?"

Keela's voice was clear as she got closer. "Professor Lupin had to go ahead but he told me to come and get you… What's going on here?"

"Take. It. Back." Clara's voice had gone only a little bit louder, making some of the witches in the back press closer, their brows furrowed in confusion. All they had heard was Kenneth Towler's boasts, his voice ringing like a weedy wind billowing toward them.

Beside her Keela stilled, the hair at the nape of her neck rising as she stepped a bit closer. Clara was breathing heavily, her face tipped forward in a way that made her curls fall chaotically across her brow, shadowing her eyes until they seemed to glow. Keela's gut tightened, her feet scraping across the cobblestone as she backed up, giving the smaller girl more berth because… because there was a rage in her eyes that didn't suit her shallow face at all, the stark bones of her cheekbones adding a sunken quality to the golden eyes beyond.

Keela remember vaguely that she had wished for Clara to stand up for herself. She remembered that she had wanted the girl to finally grow a backbone - but this - this scared her. There was a quickness to her breath that made Keela think of a dying animal trying to draw in breathes, it's innards already outside of it's flesh, the end so near that you can hear it in the way that the air escaped them. Looking at Clara now, she could almost see that now, the smaller witches body vibrating with a death rattle that made her pixie-ish features seem abnormal - grotesque even.

"Take it _back_ , Kenneth," a plump girl to Towler's right whispered, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed fear.

An uneasiness had cut through the air, shrowding the snow crusted halls, the wind growing harsher as it howled it's way around the corners.

Clara felt a part of her starting to tear, somewhere inside of her, the bees in her chest growing frenzied. Her teeth began to chatter, the _clack-clack-clack_ of her incisors hitting against each other making her breath break and jiggle from her throat. She could feel it - feel her magic begin to roll free, a swarm of insects kept too long in confinement. She almost wanted to laugh at the image, her mother's words drifting back to her. They were fanciful now. Because magic - she realized wasn't like a cage of birds at all. No. If anything it was like a vat of wasps that she had kept inside a mason jar, gorging itself on her doubts, her fears.

Towler gaze a dry laugh, his eyes watering and bloodshot - Clara could see that now, the whites slashed through with the bloody red of his veins. The sound made Clara jerk, her hands releasing from her satchel in a twitch that made a few of the student's in front of her flinch away. Clara could feel something warm and syrupy starting to coat her throat.

"Wh-why should I do that?" Kenneth said, his voice nothing more than a bleat of fear. _Something… something dark was snaking around her foot,_ he thought, his mouth going dry. He blinked hard, refocusing. What the fuck was that? He fumbled on, his words quick and wobbling even as he lost focus of what he was saying. "I'm - I'm not one of her boy-toys. Just because some stupid, sad excuse for a pureblood got a look at her knickers-"

Clara couldn't breath.

Her arms flailed for a moment, her knees hitting the cobblestone with a thud as her mouth opened on a silent scream. Keela gasped, jerking forward as Clara's head was yanked back, the long, slim line of her friend's throat exposed like the frail underbelly of a newborn doe. And then quickly jerked back, falling painfully onto her hip as black liquid oozed from Clara. Disjointed screams signaled off from the crowd of students like flare guns set off at different times.

"PROFESSOR - PROFESSOR!" Keela heard herself scream and then keep screaming, her throat going raw as her shoulders bumped against the cold hallway walls. Desperately, the other students tried to scramble away - but there was only a straight shot down the hall and to the rest of the school. A straight shot that led right past Clara. But somewhere along the line, Keela's ear shut off, her world going blissfully mute as the black stuff surrounding Clara grew and grew, eating it's way up her hips and to her waist and finally when it reached her friend's shoulder it…

Keela started to cry, her tears interrupted by sharp screams, her hands going up to shield her face as that darkness exploded, billowing out like a bomb going off. The whole world hummed, her body feeling frail and weak even as her own magic called out a mournful wail of recognition. Her mind tried desperately to understand the utter despair that she felt, her very bones aching as if she had just witnessed a friend's death. _Magic_ , she thought as she huddled into her knees. _Pure-unadulterated magic._

Clara's body wilted, her knees grazing her chin as she curled in on herself like a used flower finally being thrown from the vase to the trash. For a moment, she tried to keep her eyes open, tried to see the direction that she was going, the people she might be hurting. But… well, then she thought that was foolish. There was nothing to see anyway.

For a moment, she wondered if this was what her parents had been worried about - even Dumbledore. Clara could hear things breaking - like the sound of meat being torn apart by ravenous teeth and she knew - distantly - that this could never end well. Her world churned, condensing and expanding like a muscle that was being used and for once - Clara breathed it in, tasting sugar - for once that thing inside of her wasn't straining against her skin.

She could rest here. Her lungs stopped burning, the ache becoming more of a gentle strangulation, a slow decay.

And even though it made her uncomfortable, even though she hated it in some ways… it also felt… nice. Like the first touch of wine on an alcoholics lips or the deadly kiss of a stranger.

"Clara - clara, please!" Her magic stuttered, withering in a slow cycle of darkness. She knew - she knew that voice. Now it was reedy, high and wobbling like the call of a bird in the morning but before… She couldn't entirely remember but… "CLARA!"

Clara's lunges flexed, her heart hammering in panic as she heard the lilting notes in that plea. Keela. Keela was crying and she - Her feet wiggled, stinging from the sudden feel of snow. Desperately, wincing, Clara reached out to the darkness and beckoned it back inside, relief washing over her as she felt it obey.

Bone-deep exhaustion crashed down on her, her eyes throbbing from the sudden blaze of light. Rubbing her eyes, she stumbled a bit, her feet catching on broken tile and freezing snow, making her jerk forward, landing with a painful crash on a bed of splintered cement.

"Keela," Clara wheezed, fumbling blindly in the snow before her vision finally readjusted. And then she went still, her breath rushing from her.

There wasn't a hall any longer. Massive chunk of the roof had been ripped away like the teeth of a giant dog had torn into them. Snow fell in thick clumps all around them, dampening Clara's cheeks. The wall that had previously been slitted open by openings that overlooked the courtyard were torn apart liek gaping holes left by the extraction of teeth. Broken brick and mortar lay in frenzied heaps, the cobblestone halls now snowed in trenches.

The only thing left standing was a thin halo, Professor Lupin's brow dotted with sweat, his arm shaking as he kept a firm hold the shielding spell. The other children were huddled behind him, crying, clutching each other. And standing beside him -

Clara flinched, curling in on herself as she saw Fred and Archie, their faces pale as they stared at her with undisguised horror. And just in front of them - Clara slid backwards, her palm opening up on a jagged piece of tile. George's face was gray, his eyes shaded in agony like he couldn't bear to look at her but was forcing himself to.

Slowly, sobbing filtered in, Clara's muscles going tight as she stilled. She had never heard such a broken, terrified sound in her life. Swallowing thick mucusy bile, she turned, her eyes watering at the image before her.

Sitting in a half circle of undamaged flooring and wall, Keela's hair was a wild mess of curls, obscuring her whole face.

* * *

_As always, please review. Think of me as your fun and fluffy golden retriever puppy. You can either give me a pat on the head or you can go in the house and get your coffee. Not saying that I won't still love you but I am saying that I'll actively trip you on the way up the stairs. Your choice._


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